REESE    LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY   OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Received  _  .  i^t^&ft/_  .  ,  18 

Accessions  No.  .4t0  /<£&_.  .       Shelf  No.  __ 


THE    NEW   ARCADIA 


AND    OTHER   POEMS 


BY 

A.    MARY    F.    ROBINSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "EMILY  BRONTE" 


"  Their  lives,  a  general  mist  of  error  " 

WEBSTER 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS 
1884 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE 


A/Y 


TO 


VERNON    LEE. 


PROLOGUE 


THE    NEW    ARCADIA. 


PROLOGUE. 

NOT  only  in  great  cities  dwells  great  crime; 

Not  where  they  clash  ashore,  and  break  and  moan, 

Are.  waters  deadliest ;  and  not  in  rhyme, 

Nor  ever  in  words,  the  deepest  heart  is  shown. 

But,  lost  in  silence,  fearful  things  are  known 

To  lonely  souls,  dumb  passions,  shoreless  seas, 

And  he  who  fights  with  Death  may  shrink  from  these. 

Alas  !  not  all  the  greenness  of  the  leaves, 

Not  all  their  delicate  tremble  in  the  air, 

Can  pluck  one  stab  from  a  fierce  heart  that  grieves. 

The  harvest-moon  slants  on  as  sordid  care 

As  wears  its  heart  out  under  attic  eaves, 

And  though  all  round  those  folded  mountains  sleep, 

Think  you  that  sin  and  heart-break  are  less  deep  ? 


8  Prologue. 

You  see  the  shepherd  and  his  flocks  a-field, 
Hunger  and  passion  are  present  there,  no  less. 
Fearful!  when  suddenly  starts  forth  revealed 
Marfs  soul,  unneighbored  in  its  hideousness, 
Man's  darker  soul,  a  memory  to  possess 
Henceforth,  by  which  all  nature  pales  and  dies, 
As  a  city  suddenly  wan  under  sunset  skies. 

And  I  have  heard  long  since,  and  I  have  seen, 
Wrong  that  has  sunk  like  iron  into  my  soul, 
That  has  eaten  into  my  heart,  has  burned  me  and  been 
A  pang  and  pity  past  my  own  control, 
And  I  have  wept  to  think  what  such  things  mean, 
And  I  have  said  I  will  not  weep  alone, 
Others  shall  sorrow  and  know  as  I  have  known. 

Others  shall  learn  and  shudder,  and  sorrow,  and  know 
What  shame  is  in  the  world  they  will  not  see. 
They  cover  it  up  with  leaves,  they  make  a  show 
Of  Maypole  garlands  over,  but  there  shall  be 


Prologue. 

A  wind  to  scatter  their  gauds,  and  a  wind  to  blow 
And purify  the  hidden  dreaded  thing 
Festering  underneath  ;  and  so  I  sing. 

If  God  had  given  a  sword  into  my  hand 

I  would  go  forth  and  fight  the  battles  of  God ; 

If  God  had  given  me  wisdom,  I  would  stand 

And  summon  up  truth  with  my  divining  rod : 

But  I  have  only  a  song  at  my  command, 

The  froth  of  the  world  a  song,  as  water  weak  : 

Yet  since  it  is  my  weapon,  let  me  speak. 

And  listen  you  that  are  more  mighty  than  I, 
Who  can  go  forth  and  do  what  I  but  dream  — 
Bear  with  me  if  I  am  vain,  bear  patiently. 
I  have  lived  so  long  with  shadows,  who  only  seem, 
That  now  these  real  men  murdered  make  me  cry, 
As  there  were  none  on  earth  but  I  and  they, 
And  all  else  echoes,  phantoms,  witches1  play. 


i  o  Prologue. 

But  this  is  real,  that  men  are  wild,  and  hard, 
And  villanous  ;  while  other  men  look  on 
And  say,  it  is  not  so :  a  smell  of  nard 
And  not  of  blood  is  here  ;  not  woebegone 
These  faces,  but  content.     Ah,  what  reward 
For  all  our  strife  had  we  their  quiet  homes 
And  quiet  hearts  and  wish  that  never  roams  ! 

So  say  ye  ;  for  to  think  in  all  the  world 

There  is  so  still  and  sweet  a  resting-place, 

Where  never  the  angry  seas  of  passion  are  hurled 

Against  necessity,  where  none  is  base 

And  none  is  starved.     There  is  a  sort  of  grace 

To  keep  so  sweet  a  vision  in  your  eyes, 

And  as  you  smile  the  true  thing  starves  and  dies. 

Oh,  help  !  help  !  it  is  Murder  that  I  cry, 
And  not  a  song  to  sell.     Now  if  you  smile 
And  hear  me  you  are  mad ;  you  are  mad,  or  I. 
For  I  do  not  sing  to  enchant  you  or  beguile  ; 


D  , 

Prologue.         VEBSITY  III 

i 


I  sing  to  make  you  think  enchantment  vile, 
I  sing  to  wring  your  hearts  and  make  you  know 
What  shame  there  is  in  the  world,  what  wrongs,  what 
woe; 

Because  your  deaf  ears,  only,  are  to  blame, 

Not  your  deaf  hearts.     Look  now,  and  if  you  see 

Men  as  they  are,  contented  in  their  shame, 

I  know  that  you  will  help,  you  will  let  them  be 

Foreseeing,  noble,  wise,  and  even  as  ye  ;  — 

Only  your  eyes  I  ask,  only  your  ears, 

The  rest  I  leave  to  him  who  sees  and  hears. 

Then  let  me  sing,  and  listen  to  my  song, 

Though  it  is  rough  with  sobs,  and  harsh  and  wild, 

And  often  wanders,  and  is  often  long, 

As  mothers  tell  the  death-bed  of  their  child. 

My  child  was  gentle  visions,  and  all  were  wrong, 

And  false,  and  cruel ;  and  I  bury  it  here  : 

Lend  me  your  spades,  —  I  do  not  ask  a  tear. 


1 2  Prologue. 

Lend  me  your  souls,  and  do  not  stand  aloof, 
Saying  what  happy  lives  these  peasants  win, 
-Praising  the  plushy  lichens  on  the  roof. 
Leave  off  your  praising,  brothers,  and  come  in. 
See,  round  the  hearth,  squat  Ignorance,  Fever,  Sin. 
See  on  the  straw  the  starving  baby  cries  ; 
The  mother  thanks  her  God  another  dies. 

Ah,  look  within  !     Without,  the  world  is  fair, 
And  you  are  all  in  love  with  solitude  ; 

Yet  look  within  :  Evil  and  Pain  are  there. 
Look,  ye  who  say  Life  best  is  understood 

Where  greenish  light  falls  dappling  the  moss-floored  wood, 
Look  at  the  dumb  brute  souls  who  suffer  and  strive  ;  — 
Leave  the  dead  world,  and  make  their  souls  alive  ! 


THE    NEW   ARCADIA. 


I. 
THE    HAND-BELL    RINGERS. 


THE   HAND-BELL   RINGERS. 

i. 

LAST  night  the  ringers  came  over  the  moor 

To  ring  us  in  Christmas-tide  ; 
They  entered  in  at  our  garden  door : 
We  sat  and  watched  the  yule  logs  roar, 
They  stood  on  the  grass  outside. 

We  sat  within  in  the  warmth  and  light, 

The  fire  leapt  red  and  blue ; 
Each  frosted  lamp  was  a  moon  of  white 
The  growing  plants  half  hid  from  sight, 

Letting  the  radiance  through. 

And  the  white  and  the  red  lights  filled  the  room, 
And  flickered  on  bracket  and  ledge, 


1 6  The  New  Arcadia. 

On  the  pale  sweet  pinks  and  the  cactus  bloom, 
With  its  crimson  flush,  and  the  leafy  gloom 
Of  the  sill's  geranium-hedge. 

We  sat,  making  merry,  shut  in  from  the  rain 
And  the  Christmas  cold  outside. 

But  hark  !  the  carol  goes  pealing  again  ; 

The  ringers  are  out  in  the  cold,  Jt  is  plain, 
Ringing  in  Christmas-tide. 


n. 

I  left  the  fire  with  its  flicker  and  roar, 

And  drew  the  curtains  back. 
On  the  edge  of  the  grass  stood  the  ringers  four, 
With  the  dim  white  railing  behind,  and  the  moor 

A  waste  of  endless  black, 

With,  somewhere  burning,  aloof,  afar, 
A  single  lonely  light ; 


The  Hand-Bell  Ringers.  1 7 


But  never  a  glimmer  of  moon  or  star 
To  show  where  the  unseen  heavens  are 

Through  the  whole  dark  width  of  the  night. 

In  front  of  the  rail,  in  a  shadowy  row, 

Stood  the  ringers,  dim  and  brown  ; 
Their  faces  burned  with  a  faded  glow, 
And  spots  of  light  now  high,  now  low, 

With  the  bells  leapt  up  and  down. 

At  first,  a  faint  red  blur  in  the  night 

Is  a  face  —  no  more  than  that ; 
And  merely  a  shifting  disk  of  light 
Each  great  bright  bell,  to  the  dazzled  sight 
Worth  scarce  the  looking  at. 

Till  slowly  the  figure,  barely  guessed, 

Grows  human  ;  the  face  grows  clear  : 

The  tall,  red  prophet  who  leads  the  rest, 

The  sallow  lad  with  the  hollow  chest, 
You  see  them  all  appear. 


1 8  The  New  Arcadia. 

You  catch  the  way  they  look  and  stand, 
The  listening  clench  of  the  eyes  ; 

The  great  round  hand-bells,  golden  and  grand, 

Grasped  a  couple  in  either  hand, 

And  the  arms  that  fall  and  rise. 


m. 

So  much  I  behold,  and  would  never  complain, 

As  much  and  no  more  could  I  see. 
As  clear  as  air  is  the  window  pane 
'Twixt  me  in  the  light  and  them  in  the  rain, 
Yet  strange  they  look  to  me  ! 

Grim,  solemn  figures,  all  in  a  row, 

Intent  on  the  carol  they  ring ; 
But  I  see  no  less  in  the  pane  the  glow 
Of  the  cactus-crimson,  and  to  and  fro 
The  flames  their  flicker  fling. 


The  Hand-Bell  Ringers.  19 

My  ribbon  breast-knot  dances  across 

The  leader's  solemn  brow, 
The  moon-globed  lamps  burn  low  in  the  moss, 
And  my  own  pale  face,  as  it  seems,  they  toss, 

With  the  ringing  hand-bells  now. 

So  dark  is  the  night,  so  dark,  alas  ! 

I  look  on  the  world,  no  doubt ; 
Yet  I  see  no  less  in  the  window-glass, 
The  room  within,  than  the  trees  and  grass, 

And  men  I  would  study  without. 


II. 
MAN    AND    WIFE. 


Man  and  Wife.  23 


MAN   AND  WIFE. 

THE  bracken  withers  day  by  day, 

The  furze  is  out  of  bloom. 
Over  the  common  the  heather  is  gray, 

And  there  's  no  gold  left  on  the  broom  ; 
And  the  least  wind  flutters  a  golden  fleck 

From  the  three  tall  aspens  that  grow  in  the  beck. 
/ 

Yet,  oh,  I  shall  miss  it  to-morrow  night, 

The  wild,  rough  sea  of  furze  ; 
And  the  cows  coming  down,  looking  large  and  white, 

And  the  tink  of  each  bell  as  it  stirs, 
The  aspens  brushing  the  tender  sky, 
And  the  whirr  of  the  geese  as  they  homeward  fly. 


24  The  New  Arcadia. 

'T  is  the  first  grief  ever  I  owned  to  mind 

Until  to-night,  good  neighbor ; 
For  I  could  work  when  John  went  blind, 

And  I  never  dreaded  labor ; 
And  Willie  grew  so  good  a  son, 
We  never  fretted,  I  and  John. 

Ah,  me  !     We  Ve  waited  here  at  the  gate 

Many  and  many  an  even, 
When  Willie  lingered  a  little  late, 

And  I  Ve  thought  it  seemed  like  Heaven, 
To  stand,  the  work  all  done,  and  look 
At  the  yellow  and  pink  of  the  sky  in  the  brook. 

And  John,  I  know,  though  he  's  blind  as  a  stone, 

And  bent  with  a  life  of  pain, 
He  '11  miss  it  sore  when  he  sits  alone, 

And  wish  he  could  see  it  again  — 
As  though  it  were  Heaven  itself.     Ah,  me  ! 
There  's  only  clouds  that  the  blind  can  see. 


Man  and  Wife.  25 

No  doubt  there  was  trouble  enough  in  the  past, 

But  trouble  we  bore  together ; 
And  trouble  shared  is  no  worse  to  last 

Than  the  bite  of  wind  or  weather : 
But  now  we  're  old  to  begin  anew  — 
To  suffer  apart  —  oh,  it 's  hard  to  do  ! 

It's  not  the  shame  that  I  dread,  you  see, 
Though  it 's  sharp  ;  nor  the  workhouse  fare ; 

Oh,  any  place  is  the  same  to  me, 
Could  we  stay  together  there  : 

But  John  's  stone-blind  —  my  John,  my  man  — 

I  'd  like  to  serve  him  while  I  can. 

But  he  '11  be  apart  in  one  long  room, 

And  I  as  strange  in  another ; 
At  the  end  of  the  day  I  '11  sit  down  in  the  gloom, 

And  be  no  man's  wife  or  mother ; 
And  I  '11  miss  his  voice  and  the  tap  of  his  stick 
Till  my  throat  grows  choked  and  my  sight  grows  thick. 


26  The  New  Arcadia. 

I  '11  not  be  dull  ?    There  are  people  enough 
In  the  House  ?     Is  that  what  you  say  ? 

Yes,  every  one  there  that  I  do  not  love, 
And  only  my  man  away  : 

Voices  and  steps  coming  in  and  out, 

But  never  the  one  that  I  care  about. 

I  'd  rather  starve  in  the  snow  with  John  ! 

But  that  would  be  wicked,  I  know ; 
Indeed,  we  might  live  with  our  only  son, 

And  never  stir  out  in  the  snow. 
But  burden  his  back  with  our  useless  lives, 
And  palsy  the  arm  that  struggles  and  strives. 

Nay,  Will  has  another  to  think  of  —  my  Will, 

'T  is  time  the  lad  was  wed ; 
He  's  waited  long,  and  he  would  wait  still, 

Till  John  and  I  were  dead  : 
But  better  the  Poorhouse,  better  far, 
Than  only  to  live  as  a  fret  and  a  bar. 


Man  and  Wife.  27 

Ah,  we  remember,  I  and  John, 

The  waiting  till  youth  is  spoiled  ; 
I  'd  never  owe  my  bread  to  a  son, 

And  sit  while  he  toiled  and  moiled, 
And  see  the  lass  he  hoped  to  wive 
Grow  old  unmarried,  since  I  was  alive. 

That  was  the  way  in  our  time,  though, 

But  I  never  liked  the  way  ! 
It  kept  us  single  till  forty,  I  know, 

And  married  us  old  and  gray  ; 
And  set  me  only  one  child  on  my  knee ; 
Who  shall  not  suffer  as  much  from  me. 

And  so  to-morrow  we  leave  the  place 

To  go  to  the  House  up  yon ; 
Yes,  as  you  say,  't  is  a  sad  disgrace ; 

Yet  we  Ve  worked  hard  —  I  and  John  — 
We  Ve  worked  until  we  can  work  no  more, 
And  all  our  labor  has  left  us  poor. 


28  The  New  Arcadia, 

m 

Oh,  never  I  thought  it  would  come  to  this 
When  we  loved  each  other  first ; 

And  yet,  had  I  seen  with  the  first,  first  kiss, 
I  know  I  'd  have  faced  the  worst : 

I  'd  live  the  same  life  over  again  — 

Hardship  and  all  —  so  I  '11  not  complain. 

Neighbor,  I  'm  not  unthankful ;  indeed, 
I  know  they  are  good  to  the  poor 

Who  take  us  away  from  our  cold  and  need, 
When  we  're  grown  too  old  to  endure  : 

Only  I  think  they  can  have  no  heart, 

For  all  their  kindness,  to  house  us  apart. 


III. 


THE    SCAPE-GOAT. 


The  Scape-Goat.  31 


THE    SCAPE-GOAT. 

SHE  lived  in  the  hovel  alone,  the  beautiful  child. 

Alas,  that  it  should  have  been  so  ! 
But  her  father  died  of  the  drink,  and  the  sons  went  wild  ; 

And  where  was  the  girl  to  go  ? 

Her  brothers  left  her  alone  in  the  lonely  hut. 

All,  it  was  dreary  at  night 

When  the   wind   whistled   right   through   the   door   that 
never  would  shut, 

And  sent  her  sobbing  with  fright. 

She  never  had  slept  alone  ;  for  the  stifling  room 

Held  her,  brothers,  father  —  all. 
Ah,  better  their  violence,  better  their  threats,  than  the  gloom 

That  now  hung  close  as  a  pall ! 


32  The  New  Arcadia. 

When  the  hard  day's  washing  was  done,  it  was  sweeter 
to  stand 

Hearkening  praises  and  vows, 
To  feel  her  cold  fingers  kept  warm  in  a  sheltering  hand, 

Than  crouch  in  the  desolate  house. 

Ah,  me  !  she  was  only  a  child  ;  and  yet  so  aware 

Of  the  shame  which  follows  on  sin. 
A  poor,  lost,  terrified  child  !  she  stept  in  the  snare, 

Knowing  the  toils  she  was  in. 

Yet,  now,  when  1  watch  her  pass  with  a  heavy  reel, 

Shouting  her  villanous  song, 
Is  it  only  pity  or  shame,  do  you  think,  that  I  feel 

For  the  infinite  sorrow  and  wrong? 

With  a  sick,  strange   wonder  I  ask,   Who   shall  answer 
the  sin, 

Thou,  lover,  brothers  of  thine  ? 
Or  he  who  left  standing  thy  hovel  to  perish  in? 

Or  I,  who  gave  no  sign? 


IV. 

JANET    FISHER. 


Janet  Fisher.  35 


JANET  FISHER. 

PART  I. 

WHERE  Janet  Fisher  lived  and  died, 
The  Eastland  marshes  reach  away 

For  miles  on  miles  of  either  side 

A  river  desolately  wide 

That  is  itself  as  drear  as  they. 

With  tufts  of  purple  marish  flowers 

The  rough  gray  grass  is  islanded ; 
The  travelling  thunder  broods  for  hours 
In  gathered  purple,  where  there  lowers 
The  frequent  tempest  overhead. 

Immense  the  eternal  arch  of  sky ; 
Immense  —  utterly  barren,  too  — 


36  The  New  Arcadia. 

The  plain  in  which  no  mountains  lie 
To  mar  that  vastness,  bounded  by 
The  far  horizon's  shadowy  blue. 

Only  the  river's  gradual  bend 

Shows  stunted  willows  set  in  rows, 
Rank  pasture,  kine  the  children  tend, 
Blown  curls  of  smoke  that  swerve  and  ascend 
From  leaning  hovels  clustered  close. 

For  on  this  barren,  aguish  swamp, 
Even  here  is  life,  even  here  are  men 

To  shake  with  palsy,  stiffen  with  cramp, 

To  die  ere  fifty  of  the  damp 
And  fetid  vapors  of  the  fen. 

Though  how  a  village  came  to  grow 

In  such  a  vile  and  deathly  air 
None  knows ;  it  may  be  long  ago 
The  outcasts  of  some  crime  or  woe, 

Fleeing  for  refuge,  sheltered  there ; 


Janet  Fisher.  37 


And  through  the  habit  of  their  race, 

Or  fearing  yet  the  wrath  of  men, 
Their  children  settled  in  the  place, 
And  reaped  scant  harvest,  in  the  face 
Of  death,  upon  the  poisonous  fen. 

And  since  the  end  was  always  near, 

And  life  so  hard ;  and  since  they  knew, 
Save  sloth  and  lust,  no  joys  ;  each  year 
They  served  their  senses  less  in  fear, 
And  more  like  beasts  and  viler  grew. 

Few  friends  were  there,  tho'  all  were  kin : 
There  was  much  strife,  and  many  raids ; 
The  hovels  that  they  huddled  in 
Housed  men  whose  brutal  love  was  sin, 
Nameless  children,  and  shameless  maids. 

Even  among  this  soulless  herd 
Lived  Janet  Fisher ;  but  she  went 


38  The  New  Arcadia. 

Along  their  streets,  and  no  man  stirred 
Her  quiet  heart  with  look  or  word 
To  harm  the  village  Innocent. 

They  meant  she  was  an  idiot  born, 
This  one  fair  sight  in  foulest  place ; 

This  girl  as  fresh  as  early  morn  ; 

So  fair  —  and  yet  too  sad  to  scorn ; 
Too  sunk  for  any  hind  to  embrace. 

Their  one  fair  thing,  their  one  thing  good, 

And  she  bereft  of  sense  or  will, 
So  mere  a  mask  of  womanhood  — 
Sad ;  —  but  there  was  no  heart  to  brood 
Upon  the  irremediable  ill. 

Yet  crazy  Janet  found  them  kind  — 

They  took  her  when  her  mother  died 
To  live  in  turn  with  each ;  to  wind 
Their  well-ropes,  bind  their  sheaves,  and  mind 
Their  cattle  grazing  far  and  wide. 


Janet  Fisher.  39 


But  often  by  the  river-brim 

She  strayed,  scattering  seeds  and  flowers, 
To  wade  in  clear  green  shallows,  and  swim 
Against  the  stream  ;  or,  through  the  dim 

And  quiet  twilight,  row  for  hours. 

Day  long,  night  long,  her  spirit  slept, 

And  nothing  shook  the  sullen  drowse ; 
Yet  oft  a  shadowy  pleasure  crept 
All  through  her,  where  the  boats  were  kept, 
Beneath  the  dangling  willow  boughs. 

She  was  so  strong,  she  liked  to  feel 

Her  rapid  stroke  lend  wings  to  the  boat ; 

The  water  dashing  against  the  keel ; 

The  wind  in  her  face  and  hair ;  the  teal 
And  plovers  crying,  the  weeds  afloat. 

Then  only  she  —  who  was  so  far 
Behind  the  merest  child  of  all  — 


4O  The  New  Arcadia. 

Was  prouder,  stronger,  than  others  are ; 
And  she  could  row  to  the  harbor  bar 
And  back,  ten  miles,  ere  night  dews  fall. 


PART  H. 

But  all  the  harvest  long,  forlorn, 

Unloosed,  the  boat  rocked  to  and  fro, 
While  Janet  slept  from  eve  till  morn, 
Dead-tired  with  gathering  in  the  corn 
From  daybreak  till  the  light  was  low. 

How  glad  she  was  when  autumn  whirled 

The  slender  yellowing  willow  leaves, 
When  all  the  plants  looked  shrivelled  and  curled, 
And  no  more  corn  or  fruit  in  the  world 
Was  left  to  gather  under  eaves. 


Janet  Fisher.  41 


For  then  one  evening,  when  the  plain 

Was  strangely  bright  i'  the  sun,  and  black 
With  thunder  and  unfallen  rain 
The  sky,  she  sought  her  boat  again, 
And  bent  the  yielding  branches  back  — 

The  thinning  willow  boughs  —  and  found 

A  man,  half- stripped,  beside  the  boat, 
Burying  hurriedly  underground 
And  heaping  yellow  leaves  around 
A  stained  and  faded  soldier's  coat. 

She  stood  behind  him,  nothing  loth 
To  watch  his  work  unseen  a  span, 

For  she  was  neither  scared  nor  wroth ; 

The  splendor  of  the  scarlet  cloth 
Engrossed  her,  not  the  haggard  man. 

"  Give  me  it !  "  eager  Janet  said 

At  last ;  the  man  who  heard  her  shook 


42  The  New  Arcadia. 

Alarmed,  and  turned  his  startled  head. 
He  was  as  wan  and  gray  as  the  dead, 
And  even  Janet  feared  his  look. 

"  All 's  up,"  he  moaned.     "  Ay,  call  them  out ! 

I  'm  spent,  you  're  strong,"  he  moaned ;  —  "  hit  hard, 
I  'm  down.     Don't  stare  so,  woman ;  shout ! 
Why,  don't  you  know  what  you  're  about? 

I  'm  a  deserter —  there's  reward. 

"  I  'm  spent."     But  towards  the  scarlet  coat 

He  saw  unheeding  Janet  go ; 
Then  turned,  and  turning,  saw  the  boat. 
"  Oh,  God  ! "  he  cried,  with  straining  throat, 

"  Girl,  will  you  help  me ?  "     "I  can  row." 

Poor  Janet !  —  all  those  prayers  were  vain 

To  reach  the  incommunicable 
Dim  soul  in  her ;  and  yet 't  was  plain 
He  wished  her,  prayed  her,  to  remain  — 

And  one  thing  only  she  could  do  well. 


Janet  Fisher.  43 


She  smiled.     Her  masters  on  the  fen 
Bade  her :  Do  this,  bear  such  a  load, 

Go  there  —  for  they  were  brutish  men. 

But  this  man  spake  her  fair ;  and  then 

She  longed  to  show  him  how  well  she  rowed  ! 

Within  the  boat  she  took  her  stand ; 

He  followed  her  unquestioningly, 
Got  in,  sat  down,  at  her  command ; 
She  pushed  the  boat  off  from  the  land, 

And,  with  the  current,  sought  the  sea. 

Fierce  yellow  sunlight,  beetling  clouds 
Heaped  up  in  blackness  overhead ; 
Still  air,  in  which  the  beasts  were  cowed, 
And  all  the  sounds  were  over-loud  — 
Yet  Janet  felt  no  thrill  of  dread. 

Inland  the  sea-mews  fled,  that  know 
The  earliest  tempest-mutterings ; 


44  The  New  Arcadia. 

The  swallows,  skimming  very  low, 
Dipped,  and  a  livid  western  glow 
Glanced  off  their  sheeny  underwings. 

On  through  the  ominous  dusk  the  bark 
That  knew  no  fear,  that  had  no  soul, 
Made  for  the  sea.     How  should  it  hark 
The  wind,  or  see  the  air  grow  dark, 
Or  feel  the  widening  waters  roll  ? 

And  soulless  as  itself,  and  rash, 

Janet  rowed  on,  elate  and  proud ; 
And  thankful  to  escape  the  lash, 
Her  fellow  heard  no  waters  dash, 
And  did  not  see  the  gathering  cloud. 

Speechless  he  drowsed  for  many  a  mile, 

Sunk  to  inert  fatigue,  half  dead  ; 
At  last :  "  It  takes  a  long,  long  while," 
He  muttered.    Janet  turned  —  her  smile 
Filled  all  his  veins  with  sudden  dread. 


Janet  Fisher.  45 


He  started,  shook  the  torpid  drowse 

Off  him  like  water ;  all  around 
The  river  heaved  in  waves ;  and  soughs 
And  moans  of  wind  began  to  arouse 

The  storm ;  he  could  not  see  the  ground. 

Black  walls  of  stormy  air  shut  in 

The  boat ;  above,  a  gloomy  vault 
Shattered  by  lightning ;   roar  and  din 
Where  sea  and  hurtling  stream  begin 

Their  desperate,  endless  rebuff  and  assault. 

"  Woman  ! "  he  shouted ;  "  mad-woman,  speak  !  — 

Why  did  you  let  me  sleep  so  long? 
Is  it  the  sea,  the  sea,  you  seek?" 
The  tears  fell  into  the  spray  on  her  cheek : 

"  Help  me,"  she  wailed ;  "  I  'm  spent,  you  're  strong." 

His  words  !  his  prayer  !     No  safety,  then, 
If  she  were  mad ;  no  means  to  avert 


46  The  Nezv  Arcadia. 

The  end.     Far  backwards  lay  the  fen, 
And  here,  instead  of  a  world  of  men, 
A  danger  no  man  shall  desert. 

Had  she  gone  mad,  perhaps,  from  fright, 
This  woman?     "  Oh,  my  God  !  "  he  cried ; 

"  To  be  alone  at  sea,  by  night ; 

Lost  in  a  storm  —  no  hope,  no  light, 
A  maniac  for  my  only  guide  !  " 

She  crouched  upon  the  lowest  plank 

And  cried,  and  dashed  her  hands  in  the  wave 
That  drenched  her  dress,  and  made  so  lank 
And  straight  her  hair  —  that  slowly  sank 
Them  down  towards  the  engulfing  grave. 

The  man  stooped  down  and  looked  at  her, 
Half-blind  with  swirling  spray  of  the  sea. 
Horror,  impotent  wrath,  despair 
At  heart.     What  did  she  say?    A  prayer? 
"  Poor  crazy  Janet ;  pity  me  !  " 


Janet  Fisher.  47 


Then  was  he  lost  in  very  truth  — 

How  wild  his  hope  !  how  vain  his  trust ! 
This  woman  —  this,  his  angel  of  ruth  — 
Had  lured  him  to  his  death  ;  in  sooth, 
To  kill  her  would  be  merely  just. 

Should  he  kill  her?    Sea  and  sky, 

In  answering  storms,  heaved  up,  hung  down ; 
They  seemed  to  touch,  they  met  so  nigh. 
One  moment  more  all  else  must  die  : 

Why  should  he  kill  her?     Let  her  drown  \ 

"  Help  me  ! "  she  shrieked.     But  who  could  swim 

In  such  a  sea,  —  a  toppling  bank 
Of  waves  ?     She  sprang,  and  clung  to  him  ; 
Then  noise,  hate,  storm,  death,  all  grew  dim ; 

He  caught  her  —  tried  to  save  her  —  sank. 

But  when  the  storm  was  stilled  at  last, 
The  fishers  found  him  on  the  strand, 


48  The  New  Arcadia. 

One  arm  stretched  out,  still  battling  past 
The  waves,  it  seemed,  and  clasping  fast 
A  woman's  corpse  with  one  stiff  hand. 

They  knew  him  not,  but  her  they  knew ; 

Poor  Janet,  missed  a  day  and  night. 
Then,  wind-uncovered,  stained  with  dew, 
They  found  the  coat  j  the  wonder  grew, 

And  the  sad  story  came  to  light. 


V. 
THE    ROTHERS. 


The  Rothers.  51 


THE  ROTHERS. 

As  far  as  you  can  see,  the  moor 
Spreads  on  and  on  for  many  a  mile, 

And  hill  and  dale  are  covered  o'er 
With  many  a  fragrant  splash  and  isle 

Of  vivid  heather,  purple  still, 

Though  the  bracken  is  yellow  on  dingle  and  hill. 

The  heather  bells  are  stiff  and  dry, 
Yet  honey  is  sweet  in  the  inmost  cell ; 

The  bracken  's  withered  that  stands  so  high, 
But  sleeping  cattle  love  it  well.  — 

Thorny  fern  and  hpneyless  heather, 

A  friend  who  chills  with  the  blighting  weather. 


52  The  New  Arcadia. 

A  mile  towards  the  western  sun 

The  Rothers  have  their  wooded  park ; 

Never  another  so  fair  an  one 

Sees  from  his  poise  the  singing  lark. 

When  Rother  of  Rother  first  began 

Recks  not  the  memory  of  man. 

It  stands  there  still,  a  red  old  house, 
Rother,  set  round  with  branchy  pines ; 

The  heather  is  red  beneath  the  boughs, 

And  red  are  the  trunks  where  the  slant  sun  shines, 

And  the  earth  is  ruddy  on  hollow  and  height : 

But  the  blood  of  a  Rother's  heart  is  white. 

Right  royal  faces,  none  the  less, 

And  gracious  ways  when  the  world  is  kind ; 

But  trust  a  Rother  in  your  distress,  — 
A  hollow  hemlock  stem  you  find, 

Where  you  looked  for  a  sapling  to  cling  to  and  save 

You  yet  from  the  chasm  below  like  a  grave. 


The  Rothers.  53 


And  now  they  are  ended  —  the  faithless  race  ; 

Sir  Thomas  was  never  a  Rother  born, 
He  took  the  name  when  he  took  the  place, 

With  the  childless  wife  whom  he  laughs  to  scorn : 
And  his  life  is  a  cruel  and  evil  life  — 
But  let  none  pity  his  craven  wife. 

She  —  oh  marvel  of  wonder  and  awe  — 
O  angered  patience  of  God  !  —  I  say 

God  sees  our  sins ;  for  a  sign  I  saw 
Set  in  the  western  skies  one  day  — 

White,  over  Rother,  white  and  pale 

For  many  a  mile  over  hill  and  dale. 

Now  let  me  make  the  marvel  clear. 

When  Edward,  last  of  the  Rothers,  died 
He  left  two  orphan  daughters  here : 

Little  children  who  scarce  could  ride, 
Clutching  the  mane  with  baby  hands, 
O'er  half  an  acre  of  their  lands. 


54  The  New  Arcadia. 

I  think  I  see  the  sorrel  mare, 

Staid,  old ;  and,  tumbled  on  her  neck, 

Flushed  faces,  dimpled  arms,  and  hair 
Of  crimpy  flax  with  a  golden  fleck ; 

As  by  the  side,  with  timid  graces, 

Well  to  the  fore,  the  prim  nurse  paces. 

A  pretty  cavalcade  !     Ah  well, 

The  Rothers  ever  loved  a  horse  ! 
And  so  one  day  Sir  Edward  fell, 

9 

Out  hunting ;  dragged  along  the  gorse 
For  yards,  one  foot  in  the  stirrups  still, 
The  hunters  found  him  upon  the  hill. 

They  brought  him  home  as  cold  as  stone, 
Into  his  house  they  bore  him  in ; 

Nor  at  his  burial  any  one 

Was  there  to  mourn  him,  of  his  kin, 

Save  those  two  babies,  grave  and  grand 

In  black,  who  could  not  understand. 


The  Rothers.  55 


Poor  wondering  children,  clad  in  crape, 
Who  knew  not  what  they  had  to  mourn, 

Careful  their  sash  should  keep  its  shape 
That  papa,  when  he  should  return, 

Might  praise  each  little  stiff  new  gown  — 

All  day  they  never  would  sit  down. 

Poor,  childish  mutes,  they  stood  all  day 
With  outspread  skirts  and  outspread  hair, 

And  baby  lips,  less  pink  than  gray 

(So  pale  they  were),  and  solemn  stare ; 

They  watched  our  mourning,  pained  and  dumb, 

Wondering  when  papa  would  come, 

And  give  them  each  a  ride  on  his  horse, 
And  toss  them  both  in  the  air,  and  say 

"  A  Rother  is  sure  in  the  saddle,  of  course, 
But  never  a  Rother  rode  better  than  they," 

And  send  them  up  to  bed  at  last 

To  sleeo  till  morning,  sound  and  fast 


56  The  New  Arcadia. 

At  last  each  whitish-flaxen  head 
Drooped  heavily,  each  baby-cheek 

Its  pallid  shadow-roses  shed  — 
The  straight  black  legs  grew  soft  and  weak  - 

Father  and  frocks  alike  forgot 

They  fell  asleep,  and  sorrowed  not 

Yet  pitiable  they  were,  alone 

They  were,  twin  heiresses  of  five, 

With  lands  and  houses  of  their  own, 
And  never  a  friend  in  the  world  alive 

Save  one  old  great-aunt,  over  in  France, 

Who  knew  them  not,  nor  cared,  perchance. 

We  little  fancied  she  would  come  — 
Quit  palms,  and  sun,  and  table  d'hote 

For  two  unknown  little  girls  at  home ; 
But  soon  there  came  a  scented  note 

With  half  the  phrases  underscored, 

And  French  at  every  second  word. 


The  Rot  hers.  57 


And  soon  she  followed,  —  she  would  sigh, 
And  clasp  her  hands,  and  swear  "  by  God ;  " 

Her  black  wig  ever  slipped  awry, 
And  quavered  with  a  trembling  nod  ; 

Her  face  was  powdered  very  white, 

Her  black  eyes  danced  under  brows  of  night. 

Such  paint !     Yet  were  I  ever  to  feel 

Utterly  lost,  no  saint  I  'd  pray, 
But,  crooked  of  ringlets  and  high  of  heel, 

I  'd  call  to  the  rescue  old  Miss  May ; 
No  haloed  angel  sweet  and  slender, 
Were  half  so  kind,  so  stanch,  so  tender. 

She  loved  the  children  well,  but  most 
The  girl  who  least  was  like  herself — 

Maudie,  at  worst  a  plaintive  ghost, 
Maudie,  at  best  a  laughing  elf, 

With  eyes  deep  flowering  under  dew, 

Such  tender  looks  of  lazy  blue. 


58  The  New  Arcadia. 

Florence  was  stronger,  commonplace 
Perhaps,  but  good,  sincere,  and  kind. 

There  was  no  Rother  in  her  face, 
There  was  no  Rother  I  could  find 

In  her  heart  either ;  but  who  knows  ? 

My  son  shall  not  marry  a  daughter  of  Flo's. 

You  see  I  hate  the  Rothers,  I ! 

Unjust,  perhaps,  all  are  not  vile 
It  may  be  —  but  I  cannot  try, 

When  I  think  of  a  Rother  now,  to  smile. 
You  hate  the  Irish,  perhaps  ?  the  Turks  ? 
In  every  heart  some  hatred  lurks. 

But  these  two  girls  I  never  hated, 

I  thought  them  better  than  their  race  ; 

Who  would  not  think  a  curse  out-dated 
When  from  so  fresh  and  young  a  face 

The  Rother  eyes  looked  frankly  out, 

The  Rother  smile  flashed  no  Rother's  doubt? 


The  Rot  hers.  59 


Well,  they  were  young,  and  wealthy,  and  fair ; 

It  seemed  not  long  since  they  were  born, 
When  Florence  married  Lawrence  Dare, 

Then  Maud,  alas  !  Sir  Thomas  Thorn, 
A  bitter,  dark,  bad,  cruel  man 
Sir  Thomas,  now,  of  the  Rother  clan. 

For  now  we  come  to  the  very  root 

Of  the  passionate  rancor  I  keep  at  heart 

Flowering  in  words,  but  the  bitter  fruit 
Is  still  unripe  for  its  sterner  part. 

Well,  Maud,  too,  married,  Miss  May  was  free 

To  go-  wherever  she  wished  to  be. 

Homeless,  after  so  many  years 

Of  sacrifice  !     Where  could  she  go  ? 

But  she,  she  smiled,  choked  back  her  tears, 
"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  it  must  be  so,  — 

So  kind,  her  girls,  to  let  her  come 

Three  months  to  each  in  her  married  home  ! " 


60  The  New  Arcadia. 

And  first  at  Rother  with  the  Thorns 
In  her  old  home  she  stayed  a  guest ; 

But  must  I  think  of  all  the  scorns 

That  made  your  age  a  bitter  jest,  — 
Whose  memory  like  a  star  appears 
Thro'  the  violent  dark  of  that  House  of  tears? 

Your  Maud  was  changed ;  —  a  craven  slave 

To  her  unloving  husband  now ; 
The  bitter  words  she  could  not  brave, 

The'  silent  hatred  of  eyes  and  brow 
Estranged  her  not ;  and  oh,  't  is  true  ! 
To  gain  his  favor  she  slighted  you. 

And  yet  you  stayed  !     And  yet  you  stayed  — 
Hoping  to  win  your  dear  one  back  — 

Thinking  through  pain,  not  sin,  she  strayed 

From  the  old,  good,  well-known  heavenly  track. 

Alas,  your  lamb  had  gone  too  far  —  . 

Farther  from  you  than  the  farthest  star. 


The  Rot  hers.  61 


At  last  the  three  months  ended ;  then 

I  heard  Miss  May  was  very  ill ; 
It  was  the  first  of  autumn  when 

Our  roads  are  bad,  so  I  chose  the  hill 
And  the  brow  of  the  moor,  as  I  rode  away 
To  Rother,  where  my  good  friend  lay. 

And  now  for  my  sunset.     Is  't  not  strange 
That  heaven,  which  sees  a  million  woes 

Unmoved,  should  pale,  and  faint,  and  change 
At  one  more  murder  that  it  knows  ? 

And  yet  I  think  I  could  declare 

A  horror  in  that  sunset's  glare. 

As  I  was  riding  over  the  moor 

My  back  was  turned  to  the  blazing  white 
Of  the  western  sun,  but  all  around 

The  country  caught  the  strange  bright  light ; 
The  tufts  of  trees  were  yellow,  not  green ; 
Gray  shadows  hung  like  nets  between. 


62  The  New  Arcadia. 

Such  yellow  colors  on  bush  and  tree  ! 

Such  sharp-cut  shade  and  light  I  saw  ! 
The  white  gates  white  as  a  star  may  be  : 

But  every  scarlet  hip  and  haw, 
Border  of  poppies,  roof  of  red, 
Had  lost  its  color,  wan  and  dead  ! 

So  strange  the  east,  that  soon  I  turned 
To  watch  the  shining  west  appear. 

Under  a  billow  of  smoke  there  burned 
A  belt  of  blinding  silver,  sheer 

White  length  of  light,  wherefrom  there  shone 

A  round,  white,  dazzling,  rayless  sun. 

There,  mirror-like  it  hung  and  blazed, 
And  all  the  earth  below  was  strange, 

And  all  the  scene  whereon  I  gazed 

Even  to  the  view-line's  uttermost  range 

Hill,  steeple,  moor,  all  near  and  far 

Was  flat  as  shifting  side-scenes  are. 


The  Rothers.  63 


Lifeless,  a  country  in  the  moon 

It  seemed,  that  white  and  vague  expanse, 

So  substanceless  and  thin,  that  soon 
I  fell  to  wonder,  by  some  chance 

Of  a  sketcher's  fancy  —  how  would  fare 

The  tones  of  flesh  in  that  strange  white  glare  ? 

A  freak  of  the  painter's  cautious  eye 

Which  notes  all  possible  effect  — 
I  scarcely  daub,  but  I  love  to  try,  — 

So,  full  of  the  whim,  I  recollect, 
I  stretched  my  own  right  arm  and  gazed 
At  the  hand,  quite  black  where  the  full  light  blazed. 

That  was  too  near,  I  smiled  and  turned, 

And  shook  the  reins  and  rode  away, 
And  looked  where  the  eastern  forest  burned 

With  its  golden  oaks.     But  who  were  they 
In  the  dog-cart,  there,  just  under  the  trees  ? 
They  should  prove  my  fancy  !     A  grip  of  the  knees, 


64  The  New  Arcadia. 

And  I  reached  them ;  why,  the  Thorns  they  were, 
The  Thorns  livid,  and  clear,  and  plain 

In  the  ugly  light,  nor  could  I  dare 

To  ask  if  my  friend  were  at  ease  or  in  pain ; 

So  bitter-sour  looked  Maudie's  mouth  — 

The  whole  face  dried  like  grass  in  a  drouth. 

But  what  was  that,  see,  pent  like  a  calf 

That  the  butcher  drives  to  the  slaughter-house, 

Tied  in  the  back  of  his  cart,  and  half 
Already  slain  with  the  jolt  of  his  brows 

On  the  planks  of  the  side  —  oh,  what  was  that 

Laid  there,  like  death,  laid  prone  and  flat  ? 

What  was  that  burden  prone  and  weak  — 

What  was  it,  lying  there  behind 
Formless,  helpless  ?     I  could  not  speak, 

Nor  in  their  eyes  an  answer  find ; 
I  stopped  them,  looked  again,  and  saw  — 
Oh,  is  there,  then,  on  earth  no  law, 


The  Rothers.  65 


No  thunder  in  heaven  ?     On  the  floor 
It  was,  indeed,  an  old  gray  head 

That  jerked  from  side  to  side  ;  no  more, 
Only  an  old,  gray  woman  dead 

Behind  there,  in  the  jolting  cart, 

And  a  woman  in  front  with  a  devil's  heart. 

True,  that  indeed  they  did  not  know 
Miss  May  was  dead,  I  grant ;  enough, 

They  thought  her  merely  dying,  and  though 
The  air  was  cold,  the  road  was  rough, 

Could  say  "  Her  three  months'  stay  is  o'er, 

She  is  our  promised  guest  no  more. 

"  Now  let  her  go  to  Florence  Dare  ; 

No  need  for  us  to  nurse  her,  now ; 
The  drive  will  do  her  good,  the  air 

Strike  freshly  on  her  fevered  brow, 
And  in  the  cart  warm  shawls  are  spread  "  — 
Where,  as  you  know,  I  found  her  dead. 
5 


66  The  New  Arcadia. 

Because  they  cast  her  away,  my  friend, 
Because  her  nursling  murdered  her. 

There,  my  long  story  has  an  end 
At  last.     I  leave  you  to  infer 

The  moral  old  enough  to  be  true  : 

"  Do  good,  and  it  is  done  to  you." 

But  bid  me  not  forgive  and  forget ; 

Forget  my  friend,  forget  a  crime 
Because  the  county  neighbors  fret 

That  I  '11  not  meet  at  dinner-time 
Ingratitude  and  murder?     Nay, 
Touch  pitch  and  be  defiled,  I  say. 


VI. 

COTTAR'S    GIRL 


Cottars  Girl.  69 


COTTAR'S  GIRL. 

THE  lilac  boughs  at  Cottar's  farm 
Were  sprouting  into  spikes  of  red, 

The  April  sun  was  scarcely  warm 
When  first  of  all  I  heard  it  said 
That  Cottar's  girl  was  ill  or  dead. 

There  was  no  other  doctor  near 
For  many  miles,  so  I  set  out, 

Wondering  I  was  left  to  hear ; 

They  had  not  sent ;  sudden,  no  doubt. 
Poor  child,  to  die  when  lilacs  sprout. 

Sixteen  years  old,  poor  Cecily  ! 
I  never  thought  her  very  strong. 


70  The  New  Arcadia. 

And  yet  the  very  soul  of  glee, 
Always  ready  with  laugh  and  song ; 
Such  vivid  natures  last  not  long. 

Over  merry,  the  least  surprise 

Would  turn  her  pale  and  like  to  faint ; 

Slender,  with  such  thin  hands,  and  eyes 
Too  bright ;  the  sort  of  girl  to  paint, 
But  not  to  marry ;  a  hectic  saint. 

Hysteric  to  the  last  degree ; 

But  yet  there  was  no  cause  for  death, 

No  cause  in  that,  poor  Cecily. 
She  was  her  parents'  very  breath, 
Their  only  child,  love,  hope,  and  faith. 

She  was  so  different  from  them, 
The  stern,  decorous,  formal  pair ; 

To  see  her  stitching  at  her  hem, 
Or  spelling  out  the  Sunday  prayer, 
Was  youth  and  laughter  in  the  air. 


They  chided  her  and  said  her  name 
Was  one  that  sober  yeomen  bore ; 

She  laughed  ;  they  loved  her  all  the  same, 
Perhaps  they  loved  her  all  the  more ; 
No  Cottar  was  so  gay  before. 

Ah,  well,  they  '11  miss  her  !     There  the  house, 
Severely  white,  stood  fronting  me. 

I  passed  beneath  the  lilac  boughs, 
The  palest  buds  were  gone.     Ah  me, 
I  thought,  they  're  plucked  for  Cecily. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  heavy  day, 
Perhaps  because  she  was  sixteen ; 

But,  for  some  cause  I  cannot  say, 
I  missed  the  girl,  who  had  not  been 
My  friend,  among  the  tender  green. 

I  now  recall  how  long  I  knocked 

Before  the  mother  raised  the  latch,  — 


72  The  New  Arcadia. 

The  mother,  with  her  smile  that  mocked, 
The  sinuous  brows  that  did  not  match, 
And  eyes  that  always  seemed  to  watch. 

Not  then  she  smiled  ;  "  She  's  gone,"  she  said. 

"  My  Cecily  's  gone  ;  she  died  last  night. 
She  went  to  sleep  and  she  was  dead. 

No  pain."     She  stared  like  one  at  bay ; 

And  then  she  asked  me  would  I  say 

The  cause  of  death  ;  and  I  was  glad 
In  all  that  gloom  to  be  of  aid. 

I  stepped  within  the  chamber  sad, 
Where,  stiff  beneath  the  white,  was  laid 
The  shrouded  body  of  the  maid. 

And  by  his  little  daughter's  bier 
The  farmer,  huddled  in  his  coat, 

Looked  heavier  for  his  grief  and  fear, 
As  I  have  seen  a  stranded  boat 
Look  larger  than  it  did  afloat. 


Cottars  Girl.  73 

A  little  while  we  did  not  speak, 

I  stood  beside  the  hallowed  bed, 
And  looked  at  Cecily ;  her  cheek 

Was  rounded  still,  was  scarcely  dead. 

"  What  did  she  die  of  ?  "  then  I  said. 

None  spoke.     I  saw  the  mother  glance 

Sharp  at  the  hulking,  silent  man, 
Who  did  not  speak  and  looked  askance. 

And  as  I  waited  for  a  span 

The  dead  girl  grew  more  drawn  and  wan. 

At  last  I  raised  my  voice  again, 

And  then,  "She  choked,"  the  mother  said, 
"But  yet  I  think  she  felt  no  pain." 

'T  was  then  I  saw  above  the  bed 

A  jug  half  filled  with  shotted  lead. 

At  first  I  merely  saw ;  I  swear 

It  was  the  mother's  eyes,  not  mine, 


74  The  New  Arcadia. 

That  made  me  as  I  looked  at  her 
Perceive,  or  rather  half  divine, 
Why  that  jar  was  an  evil  sign. 


And,  swift  as  sight,  the  whole  grew  plain. 
I  knew  that  I  had  heard  or  read 

A  village  nostrum,  cruel,  vain, 

That  dosed  poor  choking  girls  with  lead, 
To  sink  the  ball  i'  the  throat,  it  said. 


A  vile  fantastic  remedy, 

Ignorant  poison.     Oh,  I  thought 

I  could  have  fairly  raged  to  see 

The  farmer  grown  quite  old,  distraught, 
And  Cecily  dead  —  and  all  for  naught. 

I  took  the  jar,  "  But  how,"  I  cried, 

"  Could  such  a  deed  be  done  by  you  !  " 


Cottars  Girl  75 


The  woman  looked  at  me  and  sighed : 
"  I  was  her  mother,  sir ;  I  knew 
There  was  no  other  thing  to  do." 

Old  Cottar  gave  nor  sign  nor  word, 
And  when  I  made  him  understand 

He  shifted  not  his  head  nor  stirred, 
But  muttered  feebly  in  his  hand : 
"  She  minds  the  house,  and  I  the  land." 

There  was  no  getting  at  the  truth  ; 
Besides,  I  think  he  did  not  know : 

They  would  not  kill  their  child  forsooth  ! 
It  seemed  a  hopeless  tangle,  so 
I  rose  at  length  and  meant  to  go. 

But,  as  I  turned,  the  mother  came, 
Asked  me  to  write  a  pack  of  lies, 

To  sign  the  death  with  some  forged  name  ; 
And  something  in  that  woman's  eyes 
Filled  me  with  horrible  surmise. 


76  The  New  Arcadia. 

I  stooped  above  their  daughter  dear, 
Not  yet  disgraceful,  only  dead. 

Beneath  the  lilacs  on  the  bier, 

Crushed  in  the  corpse,  an  unborn  dread 
Weighed  heavier  than  their  murderous  lead. 


VII. 
THE   WISE- WOMAN. 


The   Wise-Woman,  79 


THE  WISE-WOMAN. 

IN  the  last  low  cottage  in  Blackthorn  Lane 

The  Wise-woman  lives  alone  ; 
The  broken  thatch  lets  in  the  rain, 
And  the  glass  is  sheltered  in  every  pane 

With  stones  the  boys  have  thrown. 

For  who  would  not  throw  stones  at  a  witch, 

Take  any  safe  revenge 

For  the  father's  lameness,  the  mother's  stitch, 
The  sheep  that  died  on  its  back  in  a  ditch, 

And  the  mildewed  corn  in  the  grange  ? 

Only  be  sure  to  be  out  of  sight 
Of  the  witch's  baleful  eye  ! 


8o  The  New  Arcadia. 

So  the  stones,  for  the  most,  are  thrown  at  night, 
Then  a  scuffle  of  feet,  a  hurry  of  fright  — 
How  fast  those  urchins  fly  ! 

And  a  shattered  glass  is  gaping  sore 

In  the  ragged  window  frame, 
Or  a  horseshoe  nailed  against  the  door, 
Whereunder  the  witch  should  pass  no  more, 

Where  sayings  and  doings  the  same. 

The  witch's  garden  is  run  to  weeds, 

Never  a  phlox  or  a  rose, 
But  infamous  growths  her  brewing  needs, 
Or  slimy  mosses  the  rank  soil  breeds, 

Or  tares  such  as  no  man  sows. 

This  is  the  house.     Lift  up  the  latch  — 

Faugh,  the  smoke  and  the  smelt ! 
A  broken  bench,  some  rags  that  catch 
The  drip  of  the  rain  from  the  broken  thatch  — 
Are  these  the  wages  of  Hell? 


The   Wise-  Woman.  8 1 


Is  it  for  this  she  earns  the  fear 

And  the  shuddering  hate  of  her  kind  ? 
To  moulder  and  ache  in  the  hovel  here, 
With  the  horror  of  death  ever  brooding  near, 

And  the  terror  of  what  is  behind  ? 

The  witch  —  who  wonders  ?  —  is  bent  with  cramp, 

Satan  himself  cannot  cure  her, 
For  the  beaten  floor  is  oozing  damp, 
And  the  moon,  through  the  roof,  might  serve  for  a  lamp, 

Only  a  rushlight  's  surer. 

And  here  some  night  she  will  die  alone, 

When  the  cramp  clutches  tight  at  her  heart. 
Let  her  cry  in  her  anguish,  and  sob,  and  moan, 
The  tenderest  woman  the  village  has  known 
Would  shudder  —  but  keep  apart. 

Should  she  die  in  her  bed  !     A  likelier  chance 
Were  the  dog's  death,  drowned  in  the  pond. 
6 


82  The  New  Arcadia. 

The  witch  when  she  passes  it  looks  askance  : 
They  ducked  her  once,  when  the  horse  bit  Nance ; 
She  remembers,  and  looks  beyond. 

For  then  she  had  perished  in  very  truth, 

But  the  Squire's  son,  home  from  college, 
Rushed  to  the  rescue,  himself  forsooth 
Plunged  after  the  witch.  —  Yes,  I  like  the  youth 
For  all  his  new-fangled  knowledge. 

How  he  stormed  at  the  cowards  !     What  a  rage 

Heroic  flashed  in  his  eyes  ! 
But  many  a  struggle  and  many  an  age 
Must  pass  ere  the  same  broad  heritage 

Be  given  the  fools  and  the  wise. 

"  Cowards  !  "  he  cried.     He  was  lord  of  the  land, 

He  was  mighty  to  them,  and  rich. 
They  let  him  rant ;  but  on  either  hand 
They  shrank  from  the  devil's  unseen  brand 

On  the  sallow  face  of  the  witch. 


The    Wise-Woman.  83 

They  let  him  rant ;  but  deep  in  each  heart 
Each  thought  of  some  thing  of  his  own 

Wounded  or  hurt  by  the  Wise-woman's  art ; 

Some  friend  estranged,  or  some  lover  apart. 
Each  heart  grew  cold  as  stone. 

And  the  Heir  spoke  on,  in  his  eager  youth, 

His  blue  eyes  full  of  flame  ; 
And  he  held  the  witch,  as  he  spoke  of  the  Truth ; 
And  the  dead,  cold  Past  •  and  of  Love  and  of  Ruth  — 

But  their  hearts  were  still  the  same. 

Till  at  last  —  "  For  the  sake  of  Christ  who  died, 

Mother,  forgive  them,"  he  said. 
"  Come,  let  us  kneel,  let  us  pray  !  "  he  cried. 
But  horror-stricken,  aghast,  from  his  side 

The  witch  broke  loose  and  fled  ! 

Fled  right  fast  from  the  brave  amends 
He  would  make  her  then  and  there, 


84  The  New  Arcadia. 

From  the  chance  that  heaven  so  seldom  sends 
To  turn  our  bitterest  foes  to  friends,  — 
Fled  at  the  name  of  a  prayer. 


Poor  lad,  he  stared  so  ;  amazed  and  grieved. 

He  had  argued  nearly  an  hour ; 
And  yet  the  beldam  herself  believed, 
No  less  than  the  villagers  she  deceived, 

In  her  own  unholy  power  ! 

Though  surely  a  witch  should  know  very  well 

'T  is  the  lie  for  which  she  will  burn. 
She  surely  has  learned  that  the  deepest  spell 
Her  art  includes  could  never  compel 
A  quart  of  cream  to  turn. 


And  why,  knowing  this,  should  one  sell  one's  soul 
To  gain  such  a  life  as  hers,  — 


The  Wise-Woman.  85 

The  life  of  the  bat  and  the  burrowing  mole,  — 
To  gain  no  vision  and  no  control, 
Not  even  the  power  to  curse? 

T  is  strange,  and  a  riddle  still  in  my  mind 

To-day  as  well  as  then. 
There  's  never  an  answer  I  could  find 
Unless  —  O  folly  of  humankind  ! 

O  vanity  born  with  men  ! 

Rather  it  may  be  than  merely  remain 

A  woman  poor  and  old, 
No  longer  like  to  be  courted  again 
For  the  sallow  face  deep  lined  with  pain, 

Or  the  heart  grown  sad  and  cold. 

Such  bitter  souls  may  there  be,  I  think, 

So  craving  the  power  that  slips, 
Rather  than  lose  it,  they  would  drink 
The  waters  of  Hell,  and  lie  at  the  brink 

Of  the  grave,  with  eager  lips. 


86  The  New  Arcadia. 

Who  sooner  would,  than  slip  from  sight, 

Meet  every  eye  askance ; 
Whom  threatened  murder  can  scarce  affright ; 
Who  sooner  would  live  as  a  plague  and  a  blight 

Than  just  be  forgotten  ;  perchance. 


VIII. 
MEN  AND  MONKEYS. 


Men  and  Monkeys.  89 


MEN   AND   MONKEYS. 

THE  hawthorn  lane  was  full  of  flower ; 
On  the  white  hedge  the  apple-trees 
Sent  down  with  every  gust  of  breeze 

A  light,  loose- petalled  blossom -shower. 

The  wide  green  edges  of  the  lane 

Were  filmed  with  faint  valerian  ;  white 
Archangels  tall,  the  bees'  delight, 

Sprang  lustier  for  the  morning's  rain. 

The  scent  of  May  was  heavy-sweet ; 
The  noon  poured  down  upon  the  land, 
The  nightingales  on  either  hand 

Called,  and  were  silent  in  the  heat. 


go  The  New  Arcadia. 

For  even  in  the  distant  deep 

Green -lighted  forest  glades,  the  noon 
Grown  heavy  with  excess  of  boon, 

Weighed  all  the  sultry  earth  to  sleep. 

The  herds,  the  flowers,  the  nightingales 
All  drowsed ;  and  I  upon  the  edge 
Of  grass  beneath  the  flowering  hedge 

Lay  dreaming  of  its  shoots  and  trails. 

When,  starting  at  the  sound  of  feet, 
I  saw  the  Italian  vagrants  pass  ; 
The  monkey,  man,  and  peasant  lass, 

Who  figure  on  our  village  street 

At  race-time  in  the  spring ;  nor  song, 
Caper,  nor  hurdy-gurdy  tune 
Seemed  left  in  them  this  blazing  noon 

As  wearily  they  trudged  along, 


Men  and  Monkeys.  91 

Their  sallow  faces  drawn,  their  eyes 
Fixed  on  the  miles  of  dust  that  went 
Before  them,  their  round  shoulders  bent 

Beneath  a  load  of  vanities. 

The  man  tramped  first,  upon  his  back 
The  hurdy-gurdy,  with  an  ape 
Who  strained  his  lean  and  eager  shape 

Towards  the  woman's  gayer  pack 

« 
Of  rags  and  ribbons.     What  a  sight 

Among  the  blossoms  and  the  green  ! 
I  think  there  never  can  have  been 
A  stranger  shadow  in  the  light. 

They  did  not  pause  to  look  upon 

The  apple-blossom  and  the  may ; 

They  only  saw  the  dust  that  they 
Raised  in  their  dismal  trudging  on. 


92  The  New  Arcadia. 

They  did  not  even  stop  to  hear 

The  rare  sweet  call  of  the  nightingale  ; 
The  hurdy-gurdy's  squeak  and  yell 

Was  too  accustomed  in  their  ear. 

I  watched  them  plod  their  stolid  way 
Still  on ;  but  suddenly  I  heard 
The  monkey  mimic  the  singing-bird, 

And  snatch  a  trail  of  the  flowering  may. 

And  down  the  road  I  saw  him  still 

Catching  and  clutching  the  blossom  white, 
And  waving  his  long,  black  arms  in  delight, 

Until  they  passed  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 


IX. 

CHURCH-GOING  TIM. 


Church-Going    Tim.  95 


CHURCH-GOING   TIM. 

TIM  BLACK  is  bedridden,  you  say? 

Well  now,  I  'm  sorry.     Poor  old  Tim  ! 
There  's  not  in  all  the  place  to-day 

A  soul  as  will  not  pity  him. 

These  twenty  years,  come  hail,  come  snow, 
Come  winter  cold,  or  summer  heat, 

Week  after  week  to  church  he  'Id  go 
On  them  two  hobbling  sticks  for  feet. 

These  years  he  's  gone  on  crutches.     Yet 
One  never  heard  the  least  complaint. 

And  see  how  other  men  will  fret 
At  nothing ;  Tim  was  quite  a  saint. 


96  The  New  Arcadia. 

And  now  there  's  service  every  day, 
I  say  they  keep  it  up  for  him ; 

We  busier  ones,  we  keep  away  — 
There  's  mostly  no  one  there  but  Tim. 

Yes,  quite  a  saint  he  was.     Although 
•     He  never  was  a  likely  man 
At  his  own  trade ;  indeed,  I  know 
Many  's  the  day  I  Ve  pitied  Nan. 

She  had  a  time  of  it,  his  wife, 

With  all  those  children  and  no  wage, 

As  like  as  not,  from  Tim.     The  life 

She  led  !     She  looked  three  times  her  age. 

The  half  he  had  he  'Id  give  to  tramps 
If  they  were  hungry,  or  it  was  cold  — 

Pampering  up  them  idle  scamps, 

While  Nan  grew  lean  and  pinched  and  old. 


Church-Going  Tim.  97 

He  'Id  let  her  grumble.     Not  a  word 

Or  blow  from  him  she  ever  had  — 
And  yet  I  Ve  heard  her  sigh,  and  heard 

Her  say  she  wished  as  he  was  bad. 

Atop  of  all  the  fever  came  ; 

And  Tim  went  hobbling  past  on  sticks. 
Still  one  felt  happier,  all  the  same, 

When  he  'Id  gone  by  to  church  at  six. 

Not  that  I  wished  to  go.     Not  I  ! 

With  Joe  so  wild,  and  all  those  boys  — 
It  takes  my  day  to  clean,  and  try 

To  settle  down  the  dust  and  noise. 

But  still  —  out  of  it  all,  to  glance 

And  see  Tim  hobbling  by  so  calm, 
As  though  he  heard  the  angels'  chants 

And  saw  their  branching  crowns  of  palm. 
7 


98  The  New  Arcadia. 

And  when  he  smiled,  he  had  a  look, 
One's  burden  seemed  to  loose  and  roll 

Like  Christian's  in  the  picture-book  : 
It  was  a  comfort,  on  the  whole. 

It  made  one  easier-like,  somehow  — 
It  made  one,  somehow,  feel  so  sure, 

That  far  above  the  dust  and  row 
The  glory  of  God  does  still  endure. 

You  say  he  's  well,  though  he  can't  stir : 
I  'm  sure  you  mean  it  kind  —  But,  see, 

It 's  not  for  him  I  'm  crying,  sir, 
It 's  not  for  Tim,  sir ;  it 's  for  me. 


X. 

THE  SCHOOL  CHILDREN. 


The  School  Children.  101 


THE  SCHOOL   CHILDREN. 

THESE  at  least  are  clean  and  fresh, 

All  I  wished  to  see  ! 
Hair  a  flaxen  flossy  mesh, 

Waving  loose  and  free 
Round  their  ruddy  English  flesh. 

Now  at  last  they  're  out  of  school, 

Happy,  happy  time  ! 
Now  a  truce  to  book  and  rule, 

Task  in  prose  or  rhyme, 
Thought  of  prize  or  dunce's  stool. 

How  they  laugh  and  run  about ! 
What  if  now  and  then 


IO2  The  New  Arcadia. 

Somewhat  overloud  a  shout 

Reach  you  busier  men  ; 
Could  the  children  play  without  ? 

What,  you  call  them  rude  and  rough, 

Overprone  to  strife? 
Still  I  find  them  good  enough 

For  such  eager  life  ; 
What  should  they  be  thinking  of  ? 

Though  they  know  a  mint  of  things, 

So  their  mothers  say, 
Read  and  write,  and  rattle  strings 

And  strings  of  dates  away, 
Bible  judges,  English  kings, 

I,  for  one,  should  never  dare 

Such  a  gage  to  fate, 
As  to  stand  with  any  there 

Pouring  name  and  date, 
Faster,  faster  .  .  .  .  O  despair ! 


The  School  Children.  103 

That  one  passed  in  Euclid,  look  ! 

This  can  draw  and  sing  ! 
And  the  girls,  I  think,  can  cook 

Any  mortal  thing : 
So  they  quote  their  cookery-book. 

Ah  —  you  cry  —  too  much  they  know 

For  their  lowlier  rank ; 
Teach  them  but  to  plant  and  hoe, 

But  to  beg  and  thank, 
For  the  clown  needs  keeping  low. 

Nay,  but  listen,  neighbor,  pray  — 

Once  a  Flemish  seer, 
David  Joris,  so  they  say, 

Saw  in  trance  appear 
Kings  and  knights  in  great  array. 

Through  his  twilit  painting-room 
Stalk  the  sombre  host, 


IO4  The  New  Arcadia. 

Priests  and  prelates  grandly  loom  — 

Every  one  a  ghost, 
Silent  as  the  silent  gloom. 

Very  sad  and  over-worn, 

Pale  and  very  old, 
Look  the  solemn  brows  that  mourn 

Under  crowns  of  gold, 
Grown  too  heavy  to  be  borne. 

Kings  and  priests,  and  all  so  gray, 

All  so  faint  and  wan, 
Drifting  past  in  still  array, 

Ever  drifting  on, 
Till  at  length  he  saw  them  stay. 

Saw  a  second  vision  rise 

Through  the  twilit  air, 
Heard  what  laughter  and  lisping  cries, 

Saw  what  tumbled  hair, 
Rosy  limbs  and  rounded  eyes  ! 


The  School  Children.  105 

Playing  children  —  much  the  same 

As  we  see  them  here, 
Laughing  in  a  merry  game  -— 

Rose  before  him  clear ; 
But  they  clove  the  dusk  like  flame. 

Heeding  not  the  ghostly  throng, 

David  heard  them  sing ; 
At  the  echo  of  their  song 

Saw  each  ghostly  king 
Lift  his  eyes,  look  hard  and  long. 

Till  at  length,  as  when  a  breeze 

Bends  the  rushes  well, 
Captains,  kings,  great  sovereignties, 

Bent,  and  bowed,  and  fell, 
Kneeling  all  upon  their  knees. 

Laying  at  the  children's  feet 
Each  his  kingly  crown, 


io6  The  New  Arcadia. 

Each,  the  conquering  power  to  greet, 

Laying  humbly  down 
Sword  and  sceptre,  as  is  meet. 

Then,  unkinged  and  dispossessed, 

Rose  the  weary  host, 
Glad  at  last  to  cease  and  rest ; 

For  to  every  ghost 
Comes  the  time  when  peace  is  best. 

Since  our  crowns  must  fall  to  them, 
When  beyond  our  reach 

Falls  our  dearest  diadem, 
Neighbor,  let  us  teach 

Every  child  to  prize  the  gem. 

For,  be  sure,  the  new  things  grow 

As  the  old  things  fade. 
As  we  train  the  children,  so 

Is  the  future  made 
That  shall  reign  when  we  are  low. 


The  School  Children.  107 

All  the  work  we  would  have  wrought 

Must  by  them  be  done  ; 
We  shall  pass ;  but  not  our  thought, 

While  in  every  one 
Lives  the  lesson  that  we  taught. 


EPILOGUE  TO   THE    NEW   ARCADIA. 

THE  stunted  lives  from  hunger  never  free, 

The  crowded  towns,  the  moors  where  never  hoe 
Stirs  in  the  fallow  soil,  where  live  and  grow 

The  grouse  and  pheasant  where  the  man  should  be, 

The  shiftless,  hopeless,  long,  brute  misery 
That  gathers  like  a  cloud,  racked  to  and  fro 
With  lightning  discontent  —  /  cannot  show, 

I  cannot  say  the  dreadful  things  I  see. 

And  worse  I  see,  more  spectral,  deathlierfar  : 
Class  set  from  class,  each  in  its  separate  groove ; 
Straight  on  to  death,  I  watch  them  stiffly  move, 

None  sees  the  end,  but  each  his  separate  star  ; 

Too  wrapt,  should  any  fall,  to  reach  a  hand ; 

Nor,  should  one  cry,  would  any  understand. 


POEMS. 

i. 

LOSS. 


LOSS. 

DEAD  here  in  Florence  !    Yes,  she  died. 
The  prophesying  doctors  lied 
Who  swore  the  South  should  save  her  life. 
But  no,  she  died,  my  little  wife. 

I  brought  her  South  ;  the  whole,  long  way 
She  was  as  curious  and  as  gay 
As  a  young  bird  that  tries  its  wing, 
And  halts  to  look  at  everything. 

O  sudden-turning  little  head, 
Dear  eyes  —  dear,  changing,  wistful  eyes  — 
Your  love,  your  eager  life,  now  lies 
Under  this  earth  of  Florence,  dead. 
8 


H4  The  New  Arcadia. 

All  of  her  dead  except  the  Past  — 
The  finished  Past,  that  cannot  grow  — 
But  that,  at  least,  will  always  last, 
Mocking,  consoling,  Life-in-show. 

Will  that  fade  too  ?    Seven  days  ago 
She  was  alive  and  by  my  side, 
And  yet  I  cannot  now  divide 
The  pallid,  gasping  girl  who  died 
From  her  I  used  to  love  and  know. 

Only  in  moments  lives  the  Past ; 
One  like  a  sunlit  peak  stands  out 
Above  the  blurring  mist  and  doubt, 
Into  which  all  is  fading  fast. 

All  night  the  train  has  rushed  through  France, 
I  watch  the  shaken  lamp-light  dance 
Over  my  darling's  sleeping  face. 
And  now  the  engine  slackens  pace 


Loss.  115 

And  staggers  up  the  mountain  side ; 
And  now  the  depths  of  night  divide 
And  let  a  lighter  darkness  through, 
A  tangible,  dim  smoke  of  blue 
That  lights  the  world,  and  is  not  Light, 
Before  the  dawn,  beyond  the  night. 

The  vapor  clings  about  the  grass 
And  makes  its  greenness  very  green, 
Through  it  the  tallest  pine-tops  pass 
Into  the  night,  and  are  not  seen. 
A  little  wind  begins  to  stir, 
The  haze  grows  colorless  and  bright, 
Thicker  and  darker  springs  the  fir, 
The  train  swings  slowly  up  the  height, 
Each  mile  more  slowly  swings  the  train, 
Before  the  mountains,  past  the  plain. 

And  through  the  light  that  is  not  day 
I  feel  her  now  as  there  she  lay 


n  6  The  New  Arcadia. 

Close  in  my  arms,  and  still  asleep ; 
Close  in  my  arms,  so  dear,  so  dear ; 
I  hold  her  close,  and  warm,  and  near, 
Who  sleeps  where  it  is  cold  and  deep. 

That  is  my  boasted  memory ; 
That,  —  the  impression  of  a  mood, 
Effects  of  light  on  grass  and  wood, 
Such  things  as  I  shall  often  see. 

But  Her  !     God,  I  may  try  in  vain, 
I  shall  not  ever  see  her  again  — 
She  will  never  say  one  new  word, 
Scarce  echo  one  I  often  heard. 
Even  in  dreams  she  is  not  quite  here  — 
Flitting,  escaping  still.     I  fear 
Her  voice  will  go,  her  face  be  blurred 
Wholly,  as  long  year  follows  year. 

Often  enough  I  think  I  have  got 

The  turn  of  her  head  and  neck,  but  not 


Loss.  1 1 7 

The  face  —  never  the  face  that  speaks. 
My  mind  goes  seeking,  and  seeks  and  seeks. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  I  feel  her  at  hand, 
Sometimes  feel  sure  she  will  understand, 
If  only  I  do  not  look  or  think  .... 
Out  of  an  empty  cup  I  drink  ! 

Down  Lung*  Arno  again  to-day 

I  went  alone  the  self-same  way 

I  walked  with  her,  and  heard  her  tell 

What  she  would  do  when  she  was  well. 

All  else  the  same.     Upon  the  hill 
White  Samminiato  watching  still 
Among  its  pointing  cypresses. 
And  that  long,  farthest  Apennine 
Still  lifts  a  dusky,  reddish  line 
Against  the  blue.     How  warm  it  is  ! 
And  every  tower  and  every  bridge 


n8  The  New  Arcadia. 

Stands  crisp  and  sharp  in  the  brilliant  air ; 
Only  along  the  mountain  ridge 
And  on  the  hill- spurs  everywhere 
The  olives  are  a  smoke  of  blue, 
Until  upon  the  topmost  height 
They  pale  into  a  livid  white 
Against  the  intense,  clear,  salient  hue 
Of  that  mid-heaven's  azure  light. 

This,  for  one  day,  my  darling  knew, 

We  meant  to  rest  here,  passing  through. 
How  pleased  she  was  with  everything  ! 
But  most  that  winter  was  away 
So  soon,  and  birds  began  to  sing ; 
For  all  the  streets  were  full  of  flowers, 
The  sky  so  blue  above  the  towers  — 
Just  such  a  day  as  it  is  to-day, 
When  in  the  sun  it  feels  like  May. 


Loss.  1 1 9 

So  here  I  pace  where  the  sun  is  warm, 

With  no  light  weight  dragging  my  arm, 

Here  in  the  sun  we  hoped  would  save  — 

O  sunny  portal  of  the  grave, 

Florence,  how  well  I  know  your  trick  ! 

Lay  all  the  walls  with  sunshine  thick 

As  paint ;  put  colors  in  the  air, 

Strange  southern  trees  upon  your  slopes, 

And  make  your  streets  at  Christmas  fair 

With  flourish  of  roses,  fill  with  hopes 

And  wonder  all  who  gaze  on  you, 

Loveliest  town  earth  ever  knew  ! 

Then,  presto  !  take  them  unaware 

With  a  blast  from  an  open  grave  behind  — 

The  icy  blast  of  the  wind  —  a  knife 

Thrust  in  one's  back  to  take  one's  life. 

Oh,  't  is  an  excellent,  cunning  snare, 

For  the  flowers  grow  on,  and  do  not  mind 

(Who  sees,  if  the  petals  be  thickened  and  pocked?) 

And  the  olive,  and  cypress,  and  ilex  grow  on. 


I2O  The  New  Arcadia. 

It  is  only  the  confident  heart  that  is  mocked, 
It  is  only  the  delicate  life  that  is  gone  ! 

How  I  hate  it,  all  this  mask  ! 
Those  beggars  really  seem  to  bask 
In  this  mock  sunshine ;  even  I  am 
Faint  in  it ;  but  it  is  all  a  sham, 
It  is  all  a  pretence  — it  is  all  a  lie  — 
Have  I  not  seen  my  darling  die  ? 

Those  mocking,  leering,  thin-faced  apes, 
Who  twang  their  sharp  guitars  all  night,  . 
They  are  quite  thin,  unreal  shapes, 
The  figures  of  a  mirage-show. 
They  do  not  really  live,  I  know ; 
But  once  I  heard  them  swear  and  fight, 
"  God,  the  Stab-in-the-dark  !  "  they  cried. 
The  mask  fell  off  then.    Yes,  she  died. 


II. 

TUSCAN    OLIVES. 


Tuscan  Olives.  123 


TUSCAN   OLIVES. 
(RISPETTI.) 

I. 

THE  color  of  the  olives  who  shall  say? 

In  winter  on  the  yellow  earth  they  're  blue, 
A  wind  can  change  the  green  to  white  or  gray, 

But  they  are  olives  still  in  every  hue ; 
But  they  are  olives  always,  green  or  white, 
As  love  is  love  in  torment  or  delight ; 
But  they  are  olives,  ruffled  or  at  rest, 
As  love  is  always  love  in  tears  or  jest. 


124  The  New  Arcadia. 


II. 

WE  walked  along  the  terraced  olive-yard, 

And  talked  together  till  we  lost  the  way ; 
We  met  a  peasant,  bent  with  age,  and  hard, 
Bruising  the  grape-skins  in  a  vase  of  clay ; 
Bruising  the  grape-skins  for  the  second  wine. 
We  did  not  drink,  and  left  him,  Love  of  mine, 
Bruising  the  grapes  already  bruised  enough  : 
He  had  his  meagre  wine,  and  we  our  love. 


Tuscan  Olives.  125 


III. 

WE  climbed  one  morning  to  the  sunny  height, 
Where  chestnuts  grow  no  more,  and  olives  grow ; 

Far-off  the  circling  mountains  cinder-white, 
The  yellow  river  and  the  gorge  below. 

"  Turn  round,"  you  said,  O  flower  of  Paradise  ; 

I  did  not  turn,  I  looked  upon  your  eyes. 

"  Turn  round,"  you  said,  "  turn  round,  look  at  the  view  !  " 

I  did  not  turn,  my  Love,  I  looked  at  you. 


126  The  New  Arcadia. 


IV. 

How  hot  it  was  !    Across  the  white-hot  wall 

Pale  olives  stretch  towards  the  blazing  street ; 
You  broke  a  branch,  you  never  spoke  at  all, 

But  gave  it  me  to  fan  with  in  the  heat ; 
You  gave  it  me  without  a  sign  or  word, 
And  yet,  my  love,  I  think  you  knew  I  heard. 
You  gave  it  me  without  a  word  or  sign : 
Under  the  olives  first  I  called  you  mine. 


Tuscan  Olives.  127 


V. 

AT  Lucca,  for  the  autumn  festival, 

The  streets  are  tulip-gay ;  but  you  and  I 
Forgot  them,  seeing  over  church  and  wall 

Guinigi's  tower  soar  i'  the  black-blue  sky, 
A  stem  of  delicate  rose  against  the  blue, 
And  on  the  top  two  lonely  olives  grew, 
Crowning  the  tower,  far  from  the  hills,  alone, 
As  on  our  risen  love  our  lives  are  grown. 


128  The  New  Arcadia. 


VI. 

WHO  would  have  thought  we  should  stand  again  together, 
Here,  with  the  convent  a  frown  of  towers  above  us ; 

Here,  mid  the  sere-wooded  hills  and  wintry  weather ; 
Here,  where  the  olives  bend  down  and  seem  to  love  us ; 

Here,  where  the  fruit-laden  olives  half  remember 

All  that  began  in  their  shadow  last  November ; 

Here,  where  we  knew  we  must  part,  must  part  and  sever ; 

Here  where  we  know  we  shall  love  for  aye  and  ever  ? 


Tuscan  Olives.  129 


VII. 

REACH  up  and  pluck  a  branch,  and  give  it  me, 
That  I  may  hang  it  in  my  Northern  room, 

That  I  may  find  it  there,  and  wake,  and  see 

—  Not  you  !    not   you  !  —  dead   leaves   and   wintry 
gloom. 

O  senseless  olives,  wherefore  should  I  take 

Your  leaves  to  balm  a  heart  that  can  but  ache  ? 

Why  should  I  take  you  hence,  that  can  but  show 

How  much  is  left  behind?     I  do  not  know. 


III. 
STORNELLI   AND  STRAMBOTTI. 


Stornelli  and  Strambotti.  133 


STORNELLI   AND  STRAMBOTTI. 

FLOWER  of  the  Vine  ! 

I  scarcely  knew  or  saw  how  Love  began  ; 

So  mean  a  flower  brings  forth  the  sweetest  wine  ! 

I  said  :  "  My  love  is  like  a  basil-flower, 

And  none  will  see  it,  pallid  and  minute, 
For,  look,  the  roses  hang  from  every  bower, 

The  pomegranates  bow  down  with  scarlet  fruit." 
"  Upon  the  ledge,"  you  said,  "  for  every  hour 

We  choose  not  these,  we  choose  the  basil-root. 
»  The  sweet  of  roses  is  too  near  a  sour 

With  every  change  of  every  mood  to  suit." 


134  The  New  Arcadia. 

Flowers  in  the  hay  ! 

My  heart  and  all  the  fields  are  full  of  flowers ; 
So  tall  they  grow  before  the  mowing-day. 

"  As  beats  the  sea  against  the  rocks  !  "  you  cried, 

"Against  your  stubborn  will  my  soul  is  hurPd." 
You  meant  the  seeming-daunted  broken  tide. 

With  scattered  spray  and  shattered  crests  uncurl'd, 
That,  from  the  shore,  we  pity  or  deride ; 

And  yet  these  dying  waters,  spent  and  swirl'd, 
Their  stony  limits  do  themselves  decide, 

And  fashion  to  their  will  the  unconscious  world. 

Rose  in  the  rain  ! 

We  part ;  I  dare  not  look  upon  your  tears ; 

So  frail,  so  white ;  they  shatter,  bruise,  and  stain. 


IV. 

LOVE  AMONG  THE  SAINTS. 


Love  Among  the  Saints.  137 


LOVE  AMONG   THE  SAINTS. 

AT  Assisi  in  the  Church 

Well  I  know  the  frescoed  wall, 

Colors  dim,  Martyrs  slim, 
Saints  you  scarcely  see  at  all, 

Till  the  slanting  sunbeams  search 

Through  the  church, 

Waking  life  where'er  they  fall. 

Every  evening  wall  and  vault, 
Saint  and  city,  starts  and  wakes, 

One  by  one,  as  the  sun 

Broadens  through  the  dusk,  and  makes 

Grays  and  reds  and  deep  blue  smalt 

Of  the  vault 
Teem  with  Saints,  and  towers,  and  lakes. 


138  The  New  Arcadia. 

High  among  them,  clear  to  see, 
Is  one  stately  fresco  set ; 

There  they  stand,  hand  in  hand, 
Bride  and  bridegroom  gravely  met, 

Francis  and  Saint  Poverty. 

Well  I  see 

All  the  Saints  attending,  yet. 

Close  their  ranks  by  groom  and  bride  ; 

Straight  their  faces,  clear  and  pure  ; 
Pale  in  stain,  pale  and  plain, 

Fall  their  ample  robes  demure. 
Grave,  these  goodly  friends  beside, 
Stands  the  bride, 

Shorn  of  every  earthly  lure. 

But,  when  I  was  there  to  look, 
Not  Saint  Agnes  nor  Saint  Clare 

(Tall  and  faint,  like  a  saint) 
But  a  naked  captive  there 


Love  Among  the  Saints.  139 

Fast  my  wandering  fancy  took ; 
Still  I  look, 
Vainly,  for  that  face  and  hair. 

For,  amid  the  saintly  light, 

From  the  faded  fresco  starts, 
Fair  and  pale,  thin  and  frail, 

Round  his  neck  a  chain  of  hearts, 
Love  himself  in  mazed  affright, 
Out  of  sight 

Of  his  altar  and  his  darts. 

Starved  and  naked,  wan  and  thin, 

Beautiful  in  his  distress, 
Crouches  Love,  whom  above 

All  the  saints  in  glory  bless. 
Here  he  may  not  enter  in, 
Cold  and  thin, 

Naked,  with  no  wedding-dress. 


140  The  New  Arcadia. 

From  the  altar  and  the  shrine 

One  turns  round  in  frowning  grace, 

Bids  the  wild,  naked  child, 
Swiftly  leave  the  holy  place. 

Not  for  thee  the  bread  and  wine 

On  the  shrine, 

Starving  god  of  alien  race  ! 

Yet,  O  Warder,  was  it  wise 

Thus  to  spurn  him  ?    Was  it  well  ? 

Love  is  strong,  lasting  long, 

Him  thou  canst  not  bind  in  Hell ; 

Scourge  him,  burn,  he  never  dies, 

Phoenix-wise 

Riseth  he  unconquerable. 

Only  martyred  Love  returns 
With  an  altered  face  and  air ; 

Not  a  child,  sweet  and  mild, 
Fit  for  daily  kiss  and  care, 


Love  Among  the  Saints.  141 

But  a  spirit  which  aches  and  burns, 
Swift  he  turns 

All  your  visions  to  despair. 

Love  you  cannot  reach  or  find, 

Love  that  aches  within  the  soul, 
Vague  and  faint,  till  the  Saint 

Cries,  beyond  his  own  control, 
For  some  answer  that  his  blind 
Soul  can  find 

But  in  its  own  vain  diastole. 

Ah,  beware  !     That  phantom  Love 

Drives  to  madness,  and  destroys. 
Yet,  to  all  Love  must  call, 

Only  we  may  choose  the  voice. 
And  whate'er  we  are  or  prove, 
Loathe  or  love, 

Hangs  upon,  that  instant's  choice. 


V. 

JUTZI  SCHULTHEISS. 


Jutzi  Schultheiss.  145 


JUTZI  SCHULTHEISS. 

TOSS,   I3OO. 

[Jiitzi  Schultheiss,  a  mediaeval  Mystic,  loses  her  gifts  of  trance 
and  vision,  because  in  a  moment  of  anger  she  refuses  to  pray  for 
some  turbulent  knights.] 

THE  gift  of  God  was  mine  ;  I  lost 
For  aye  the  gift  of  Pentecost 

I  never  knew  why  God  bestowed 

On  me  the  vision  and  the  load  ; 

But  what  He  wills  I  have  no  will 

To  question,  blindly  following  still 

The  hand  that  even  from  my  birth 

Hath  shown  me  Heaven,  forbidding  Earth. 

I  was  a  child  when  first  I  drew 

In  sight  of  God ;  a  subtle,  new, 

10 


146  The  New  Arcadia. 

Faint  happiness  had  drawn  about 
My  soul,  and  shut  the  whole  earth  out. 
Yet  I  was  sick.     I  lay  in  bed 
So  weak  I  could  not  lift  my  head  — 
So  weak,  and  yet  so  quite  at  rest, 
Pillowed  upon  my  Saviour's  breast 
It  seemed.     Then  suddenly  I  felt 
Great  wings  encompass  me  and  dwelt 
Silent  awhile  in  awe  and  fear, 
While  swiftly  nearer  and  more  near 
Descended  God.     A  stream  of  white 
Shining,  intolerable  light, 
Blinded  my  eyes  and  all  grew  dim. 
Then  stilled  in  trance  I  dwelt  with  Him 
A  little  while  in  perfect  peace, 
Till,  fold  by  fold,  the  dark  withdrew, 
I  felt  the  heavenly  blessing  cease, 
And  angels  swiftly  bear  me  through 
The  dizzy  air  in  lightning  flight 
Till  here  I  woke,  and  it  was  night. 


Jutzi  Schultheiss.,  147 

My  mother  wept  beside  my  bed, 

My  brothers  prayed ;  for  I  was  dead. 

Then,  when  ray  soul  was  given  back, 

I  cried,  as  wretches  on  the  rack 

Cry  in  the  last  quick  wrench  of  pain, 

And  breathed,  and  looked,  and  lived  again. 

Ah  me,  what  tears  of  joy  there  fell ! 

How  they  all  cried,  "  A  miracle  !  " 

And  kissed  me  given  back  to  earth, 

The  dearer  for  that  second  birth 

To  her  who  bore  me  first.     Ah  me, 

How  glad  we  were  !     Then  Anthony, 

My  brother,  spoke  :  "  What  God  has  given," 

He  said,  "  Let  us  restore  to  Heaven." 

And  as  he  spoke  beneath  the  rod 

I  bowed,  and  gave  myself  to  God. 

Not  suddenly  the  gift  returned. 
Alas  !  methinks  too  much  I  yearned 
For  the  old  earthly  joys,  the  home 


148  The  New  Arcadia. 

That  I  had  left  for  evermore ; 

The  garden  with  its  herbs,  and  store 

Of  hives  filled  full  of  Roneycomb  ; 

The  lambs  and  calves  that  chiefly  were, 

Of  all  we  had,  my  special  care  ; 

My  brothers,  too,  all  left  behind, 

All,  for  some  other  girl  to  find ; 

And  she  who  loves  me  everywhere, 

My  mother,  whom  I  often  kissed 

In  absence  with  vain  lips  that  missed 

My  mother  more  than  God  above. 

Much  bound  was  I  with  earthly  love. 

So  slight  my  strength,  I  never  could 

Have  freed  myself  from  servitude. 

But  He  who  loves  us  saw  my  pain, 

And  with  one  blow  struck  free  my  chain. 

Weeping  I  knelt  within  the  gloom 

One  evening  in  my  convent  room, 

Trying  with  all  my  heart  to  pray, 

And  weeping  that  my  thoughts  would  stray ; 


Jutzi  Schultheiss.  149 


When  suddenly  again  I  felt 

The  unearthly  light  and  rest ;  I  dwelt 

Rapt  in  mid-heaven  the  whole  night  through, 

And  through  my  cell  the  angels  flew, 

The  angels  sang,  the  angels  shone. 

The  Saints  in  glory,  one  by  one, 

Floated  to  God  ;  and  under  Him 

Circled  the  shining  Seraphim. 

Now  from  that  day  my  heart  was  free, 

And  I  was  God's ;  then  gradually 

The  convent  learned  the  solemn  truth, 

And  they  were  glad  because  my  youth 

Was  pleasing  in  the  sight  of  Him 

Who  filled  my  spirit  to  the  brim. 

They  wrote  my  visions  down  and  made 

A  treasure  of  the  words  I  said. 

And  far  and  wide  the  news  was  spread 

That  I  by  God  was  visited. 

Then  many  sought  our  convent's  door, 


150  The  New  Arcadia. 

And  lands  and  dower  began  to  pour 
With  blessings  on  our  house  ;  for  thus 
Men  praised  the  Lord  who  favored  us. 

For  seven  long  years  the  gift  was  mine, 
I  often  saw  the  angels  shine 
Suddenly  down  the  cloister's  dark 
Deserted  length  at  night ;  and  oft 
At  the  high  mass  I  seemed  to  mark 
A  stranger  music,  high  and  soft, 
That  swam  about  the  heavenly  Cup, 
And  caught  our  ruder  voices  up ; 
And  often,  nay,  indeed  at  will, 
I  would  lie  back  and  let  the  still 
Cold  trance  creep  over  me  —  and  see 
Mary  and  all  the  Saints  flash  by, 
Till  only  God  was  left  and  I. 

The  gift  of  God  was  mine  ;  I  lost 
For  aye  the  gift  of  Pentecost. 


Jutzi  Schultheiss.  151 

Now  sometimes  in  the  summer  time 

I  stood  beneath  the  orchard  trees, 

And  in  their  boughs  I  heard  the  breeze 

Keep  on  a  low  continuing  rhyme, 

And  nothing  else  was  heard  beside 

The  little  birds  that  sang  and  cried 

Their  Latin  to  the  praise  of  God. 

And  under  foot  new  grass  I  trod, 

And  overhead  the  light  was  green, 

And  all  the  boughs  were  starred  and  gay 

With,  apple-blossoms  in  between 

The  fresh  young  leaves  as  sweet  as  they. 

And  as  I  looked  upon  the  sun, 

Who  made  these  fair  things  every  one 

To  sprout  and  sing  and  wax  so  strong, 

My  whole  heart  turned  into  a  song. 

"  For,  God,"  I  thought,  "  this  sun  art  Thou, 

And  Thou  art  in  the  orchard  bough, 

And  in  the  grass  whereon  I  tread, 

And  in  the  bird-song  overhead, 


152  The  New  Arcadia. 


And  in  my  soul  and  limbs  and  voice, 

And  in  my  heart  which  must  rejoice  — 

God  !  "     And  my  song  stopped  weak  and  dazed, 

I  seemed  upon  the  very  verge 

Of  some  great  brink,  where  from  amazed 

My  soul  shrank  back,  lest  should  emerge 

Thence  —  Nay,  what  then ?    What  should  I  fear? 

I  to  whom  God  was  known  and  dear? 

Once  so  possessed  with  God,  I  stood 
In  prayer  within  the  orchard  wood, 
When  some  one  softly  called  my  name, 
And  shattered  all  my  happy  mood. 
Towards  me  an  ancient  Sister  came, 
"  Quick,  Jutzi,  to  the  hall !  "  she  cried ; 
And  swiftly  after  her  I  hied, 
And  swiftly  reached  the  convent  hall, 
Now  full  of  struggle  and  loud  with  brawl. 

Close  to  the  door  aghast  I  stayed, 
Too  much  indignant  and  afraid 


Sckultheiss.  153 


To  ask  who  wrought  this  blasphemy. 
Then  the  old  nun  crept  nearer  me, 
And  whispered  how  some  knights  to-day, 
Riding  to  Zurich's  tourney-fray, 
Had  craved  our  shelter  and  repast, 
And  how  we  made  the  postern  fast, 
Because  they  were  so  rough  a  crew, 
Yet  gave  them  food  and  rest  enew 
In  the  great  barn  outside  the  gate  ; 
And  how  they  feasted  long  and  late 
Till,  drunk,  they  stormed  the  postern  door, 
And  sacked  the  buttery  for  more. 
Nor  this  the  end  ;  for,  having  done, 
One  shouted  "  Nassau  ;  "  straightway  one 
"  Hapsburg."     The  battle  was  begun. 

She  looked  at  me  afraid  and  faint, 
With  eyes  that  mutely  begged  for  aid  ; 
For  I  was  safe  and  I  a  saint, 
She  thought,  who  was  a  frightened  maid  ; 


154  The  New  Arcadia. 

And  through  the  clamor  and  the  din 
I  heard  her  say,  "  They  can  but  sin, 
Having  not  God  within  their  heart ; 
But  we,  who  have  the  better  part, 
Must  pray  for  them  to  Christ  above, 
That  in  the  greatness  of  His  love 
He  pardon  them  their  sins  to-day." 
And  then  she  turned  her  eyes  away. 
But  I  looked  straight  before  me  where 
The  unseemly  blows  and  clamors  were, 
And  cold  my  heart  grew,  stiff  and  cold, 
.  For  I  had  prayed  so  much  of  old, 
So  vainly  for  these  knights-at-arms, 
Who  filled  the  country  with  alarms  — 
Too  often  had  I  prayed  in  vain, 
Too  often  put  myself  in  pain 
For  these  irreverent,  brawling,  rough, 
And  godless  knights  —  I  had  prayed  enough  ! 

"  Let  God,"  I  cried,  "  do  all  He  please ; 
I  pray  no  more  for  such  as  these." 


Jutzi  Schultkeiss.  155 

Then  swift  I  turned  and  fled,  as  though 
I  fled  from  sin,  and  strife,  and  woe, 
Who  fled  from  God,  and  from  His  grace. 
Nor  stayed  I  till  I  reached  the  place 
Where  I  had  prayed  an  hour  ago. 

I  stood  again  beneath  the  shade 

The  flowering  apple-orchard  made ; 

The  grass  was  still  as  tall  and  green, 

And  fresh  as  ever  it  had  been. 

I  heard  the  little  rabbits  rush 

As  swiftly  through  the  wood ;  the  thrush 

Was  singing  still  the  self-same  song, 

Yet  something  there  was  changed  and  wrong. 

Or  through  the  grass  or  through  my  heart 

Some  deadly  thing  had  passed  athwart, 

And  left  behind  a  blighting  track  ; 

For  the  old  peace  comes  never  back. 

God  knows  how  I  am  humbled,  how 
There  is  in  all  the  convent  now 


156  The  New  Arcadia. 

No  novice  half  so  weak  and  poor 
In  all  esteem  as  I ;  the  door 
I  keep,  and  wait  on  passers-by, 
And  lead  the  cattle  out  to  browse, 
And  wash  the  beggars'  feet ;  even  I, 
Who  was  the  glory  of  our  house. 

Yet  dares  my  soul  rejoice  because, 

Though  I  have  failed,  though  I  have  sinned, 

Not  less  eternal  are  the  laws 

Of  God,  no  less  the  sun  and  wind 

Declare  His  glory  than  before, 

Though  I  am  fallen,  and  faint,  and  poor.   • 

Nay,  should  I  fall  to  very  Hell, 

Yet  am  I  not  so  miserable 

As  heathen  are,  who  know  not  Him, 

Who  makes  all  other  glories  dim. 

O  God,  believed  in  still  though  lost, 

Yet  fill  me  with  Thy  Holy  Ghost  — 

Let  but  the  vision  fill  mine  eye 


Jutzi  Schultheiss.  157 


An  instant  ere  the  tear  be  dry ; 

Or,  if  Thou  wilt,  keep  hid  and  far, 

Yet  art  Thou  still  the  secret  star 

To  which  my  soul  sets  all  her  tides, 

My  soul  that  recks  of  nought  besides. 

Have  not  I  found  Thee  in  the  fire 

Of  sunset's  purple  after-glow? 

Have  not  I  found  Thee  in  the  throe 

Of  anguished  hearts  that  bleed  and  tire  ? 

God,  once  so  plain  to  see  and  hear, 

Now  never  answering  any  tear. 

O  God,  a  guest  within  my  house 

Thou  wert,  my  love  thou  wert,  my  spouse ; 

Yet  never  known  so  well  as  now 

When  the  ash  whitens  on  my  brow ; 

And  cinders  on  my  head  are  tossed, 

Because  the  gift  I  had  I  lost 


VI. 


LAUS  DEO:  A.D. 


Laus  Deo:   A.D.   1213.  161 


LAUS  DEO:   A.D.    1213. 

GOD  is  the  common  soul  of  all. 
The  Christ  Himself  Who  saveth  me, 
Nearer  to  God  I  dare  not  call 
Than  is  the  ruining  wind  at  sea 
Or  the  lost  corpse  whom  no  one  weeps. 
Not  this  nor  that  is  God  ;  but  He 
All  things  pervades,  in  all  things  sleeps, 
And  by  His  nature,  not  His  will, 
The  round  world  from  destruction  keeps. 
Not  this  nor  that  is  God  ;  and  still 
I  know,  I  know  He  may  be  found 
More  closely  than  in  cloud  or  rill : 
For,  lost  within  my  soul's  profound 
And  inner  depth,  a  being  moves 
That  is  not  me,  that  is  not  bound 
ii 


1 62  The  New  Arcadia. 

By  earthly  limits,  earthly  loves, 
That  is  not  stirred  by  what  I  feel, 
And  which  condemns  not,  nor  approves. 
Beside  that  inner  depth  I  reel, 
Looking  therein,  therefrom  I  shrink  ; 
So  far  the  empty  dark  doth  wheel, 
So  far,  so  wide  below  the  brink. 
And  yet  I  know  the  chasm  is  His ; 
Nor  till  I  fall  and  dare  not  think, 
But  simply  through  the  dark  abyss 
Keep  falling  down,  and  still  to  fall, 
Shall  I  behold  God  as  He  is. 

O  vast  abysm  of  God,  O  lone 

And  awful  chaos  unexplored, 

Where  buds  the  latest  flower  unknown, 

Where  all  our  undreamed  deeds  are  stored 

Unborn  and  still,  O  mighty  womb, 

In  which  the  unconscious,  voiceless  Word 

Dwells  without  life  alive  !     O  tomb, 


Laus  Deo:   A.D.   1213.  163 

Which  buries  all  the  past  no  less 

Than  us  in  Thine  eternal  room  ! 

O  God,  too  far,  too  strange  to  bless 

Me  that  would  drag  myself  to  Thee, 

Take  from  my  soul  its  separateness, 

And  let  myself  no  more  be  me  ! 

Take  from  me  memory,  thought  and  soul, 

Drowned  and  confounded  let  me  be, 

In  Thy  surrounding  night  to  roll, 

An  atom  past  my  own  control, 

In  the  unconscious  sum  of  Thee. 


VII. 
APPREHENSION. 


Apprehension.  167 


APPREHENSION. 


THE  hills  come  down  on  every  side, 

The  marsh  lies  green  below, 
The  green,  green  valley  is  long  and  wide, 
Where  the  grass  grows  thick  with  the  rush  beside, 

And  the  white  sheep  come  and  go. 

Down  in  the  marsh  it  is  green  and  still ; 

You  may  linger  all  the  day, 
Till  a  shadow  slants  from  the  western  hill, 
And  the  color  goes  out  of  the  flowers  in  the  rill, 

And  the  sheep  look  ghostly  gray. 


1 68  The  New  Arcadia. 


And  never  a  change  in  the  great  green  flat 

Till  the  change  of  nightr  my  friend. 
Oh  wide  green  valley  where  we  two  sat, 
How  I  longed  that  our  lives  were  as  peaceful  as  that, 

And  seen  from  end  to  end  I 


n. 

0  foolish  dream,  to  hope  that  such  as  I 
Who  only  answer  to  thine  easiest  moods, 
Should  fill  thy  heart,  as  o'er  my  heart  there  broods 

The  perfect  fulness  of  thy  memory  \ 

1  flit  across  thy  soul  as  white  birds  fly 
Across  the  untrodden  desert  solitudes  : 

A  moment's  flash  of  wings  ;  fair  interludes 
That  leave  unchanged  the  eternal  sand  and  sky. 

Even  such  to  thee  am  I ;  but  thou  to  me 
As  the  embracing  shore  to  the  sobbing  sea, 
Even  as  the  sea  itself  to  the  stone-tossed  rill. 


Apprehension.  169 


But  who,  but  who  shall  give  such  rest  to  thee  ? 
The  deep  mid-ocean  waters  perpetually 
Call  to  the  land,  and  call  unanswered  still. 


ra. 

As  dreams  the  fasting  nun  of  Paradise, 
And  finds  her  gnawing  hunger  pass  away 
In  thinking  of  the  happy  bridal  day 

That  soon  shall  dawn  upon  her  watching  eyes, 

So,  dreaming  of  your  love,  do  I  despise 

Harshness  or  death  of  friends,  doubt,  slow  decay, 
Madness,  —  all  dreads  that  fill  me  with  dismay, 

And  creep  about  me  oft  with  fell  surmise. 

For  you  are  true  ;  and  all  I  hoped  you  are ; 
O  perfect  answer  to  my  calling  heart ! 
And  very  sweet  my  life  is,  having  thee. 

Yet  must  I  dread  the  dim  end  shrouded  far ; 

Yet  must  I  dream  :  should  once  the  good  planks  start, 
How  bottomless  yawns  beneath  the  boiling  sea  ! 


VIII. 

LOVE  AND  VISION. 


Love  and  Vision.  173 


LOVE  AND  VISION. 

MY  love  is  more  than  life  to  me, 
And  you  look  on  and  wonder 

In  what  can  that  enchantment  be 
You  think  I  labor  under. 

Yet  you,  too,  have  you  never  gone 

Some  wet  and  yellow  even 
Where  russet  moors  reach  on  and  on 

Beneath  a  windy  heaven  ?  — 

Brown  moors  which  at  the  western  edge 

A  watery  sunset  brushes 
With  misty  rays  yon  sullen  ledge 

Of  cloud  casts  down  on  the  rushes. 


174  The  Neiv  Arcadia. 

You  see  no  more  ;  but  shade  your  eyes, 
Forget  the  showery  weather, 

Forget  the  wet,  tempestuous  skies, 
And  look  upon  the  heather. 

Oh,  fairyland,  fairyland  ! 

It  sparkles,  lives,  and  dances, 
By  every  gust  swayed  down  and  fanned, 

And  every  rain-drop  glances. 

Never  in  jewel  or  wine  the  light 
Burned  like  the  purple  heather ; 

And  some  is  the  palest  pink,  some  white, 
Swaying  and  dancing  together. 

Every  stem  is  sharp  and  clear, 

Every  bell  is  ringing, 
No  doubt,  some  tune  we  do  not  hear 

For  the  thrushes7  sleepy  singing. 


Love  and  Vision.  175 

Over  all,  like  the  bloom  on  a  grape, 

The  lilac  seeding-grasses 
Have  made  a  haze,  vague,  without  shape, 

For  the  wind  to  change  as  it  passes. 

Under  all  is  the  budding  ling, 

Gray-green  with  scarlet  notches, 
Bossed  with  many  a  mossy  thing, 

And  gold  with  lichen-blotches. 

Here  and  there  slim  rushes  stand 

Aslant  as  carried  lances. 
I  saw  it  and  called  it  fairyland ; 

You  never  saw  it,  the  chance  is? 

Brown  moors  and  stormy  skies  that  kiss 

At  eve  in  rainy  weather 
You  saw  —  but  what  the  heather  is 

Saw  I,  who  love  the  heather. 


IX. 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  FAIRYLAND. 


Tlie  Conquest  of  Fairyland.          1 79 


THE  CONQUEST   OF  FAIRYLAND. 

THERE  reigned  a  king  in  the  land  of  Persia,  mighty  and 

great  was  he  grown, 
On  the  necks  of  the   kings   of  the  conquered   earth   he 

builded  up  his  throne. 

There  sate  a  king  on  the  throne  of  Persia ;  and  he  was 

grown  so  proud 
That  all  the  life  of  the   world   was   less  to  him  than  a 

passing  cloud. 

He  reigned  in  glory :  joy  and  sorrow  lying  between  his 

hands. 
If  he  sighed  a  nation  shook,  his  smile  ripened  the  harvest 

of  lands. 


180  The  New  Arcadia. 

He  was  the  saddest  man  beneath  the  everlasting  sky, 
For   all   his   glories  had  left  him  old,  and  the  proudest 
king  must  die. 

He  who  was  even  as  God  to  all  the  nations  of  men, 
Must  die  as  the  merest  peasant  dies,  and  turn  into  earth 
again. 

And  his  life  with  the  fear  of  death  was  bitter  and  sick 

and  accursed, 
As   brackish   water   to   drink   of  which  is  to  be  forever 

athirst. 

The  hateful  years  rolled  on  and  on,  but  once  it  chanced 

at  noon 
The  drowsy  court  was  thrilled  to  gladness,  it  echoed  so 

sweet  a  tune. 

Low  as  the  lapping  of  the  sea,  as  the  song  of  the  lark  is 

clear, 
Wild  as  the  moaning  of  pine  branches ;  the  king  was  fain 

to  hear. 


The  Conquest  of  Fairyland.          181 

"What  is  the  song,  and   who  is  the  singer?"  he    said; 

"  before  the  throne 
Let  him  come,  for  the  songs  of  the  world  are  mine,  and 

all  but  this  are  known." 

Seven  mighty  kings  went  out  the  minstrel  man  to  find  : 
And  all  they  found  was  a  dead  cypress  soughing  in  the 
wind. 

And  slower  still,  and  sadder  still  the  heavy  winters  rolled, 
And   the   burning  summers  waned   away,   and  the   king 
grew  very  old ; 

Dull,  worn,  feeble,  bent ;  and  once  he  thought,  "  To  die 
Were  rest,  at  least."     And  as  he  thought  the  music  wan- 
dered by. 

Into  the  presence  of  the  king,  singing,  the  singer  came, 
And  his  face  was  like  the  spring  in  flower,  his  eyes  were 
clear  as  flame. 


1 82  The  New  Arcadia. 


"  What  is  the  song  you  play,  and  what  the  theme  your 

praises  sing? 
It  is  sweet ;  I  knew  not  I  owned  a  thing  so  sweet,"  said 

the  weary  king. 

"  1   sing  my  country,"    said  the  singer,   "  a  land  that  is 

sweeter  than  song." 
"  Which  of  my  kingdoms  is  your  country  ?     Thither  would 

I  along." 

"  Great,  O  king,  is  thy  power,  and  the  earth   a  footstool 

for  thy  feet ; 
But  my  country  is  free,  and  my  own  country,  and  oh,  my 

country  is  sweet !  " 

The  eyes  of  the  king,  as  he  heard,  grew  young  and  alive 

with  fire  : 
"  Lo,  is  there  left  on   the  earth  a  thing  to  strive  for,  a 

thing  to  desire  ? 


The  Conquest  of  Fairyland.          183 

"Where  is  thy  country?  tell   me,  O  singer  !  speak   thine 

innermost  heart ! 
Leave  thy  music  !  speak  plainly  !     Speak  —  forget  thine 

art  ! " 

The  eyes  of  the  singer  shone  as  he  sang,  and  his  voice 

rang  wild  and  free  * 
As  the  elemental  wind  or  the  uncontrollable  sobs  of  the 

sea. 

"  O  for  my  distant  home  !  "  he  sighed  ;  "  Oh,  alas  !  away 

and  afar 
I    watch   thee   now   as   a   lost   sailor  watches  a   shining 

star. 

"  Oh,  that  a  wind  would  take  me  there  !  that  a  bird  would 

set  me  down 
Where   the   golden   streets   shine   red   at   sunset   in  my 

father's  town  ! 


184  The  New  Arcadia. 

"  For  only   in   dreams   I   see   the  faces   of  the  women 

there, 
And  fain  would  I  hear  them  singing  once,  braiding  their 

ropes  of  hair. 

"  Oh,  I  am  thirsty,  and  long  to  drink  of  the  river  of  Life, 

and  I 
Am  fain  to  find  my  own  country,  where   no   man   shall 

die." 

Out  of  the  light  of  the  throne,  the  king  looked  down  :  as 

in  the  spring 
The   green  leaves  burst   from  their  dusky  buds,  so   was 

hope  in  the  eyes  of  the  king. 

"  Lo,"  he  said,  "  I  will  make  thee  great ;  I  will  make  thee 

mighty  in  sway 
Even  as  I ;  but  the  name  of  thy  country  speak,  and  the 

place  and  the  way." 


The  Conquest  of  Fairyland.          185 

"  Oh,  the  way  to  my  country  is  ever  north  till  you  pass 

the  mouth  of  hell, 
Past  the  limbo  of  dreams   and  the  desolate  land  where 

shadows  dwell. 

"  And  when  you  have  reached  the  fount  of  wonder,  you 

ford  the  waters  wan 
To  the  land  of  elves  and  the  land  of  fairies,  enchanted 

Masinderan." 

%  * 

The  singer  ceased ;  and  the  lyre  in  his  hand  snapped,  as 

a  cord,  in  twain  ; 
And  neither  lyre  nor  singer  was  seen  in  the  kingdom  of 

Persia  again. 

And  all  the  nobles  gazed  astounded ;  no   man   spoke  a 

word 
Till  the  old  king  said  :  "  Call  out  my  armies ;  bring  me 

hither  a  sword  !  " 


1 86  The  New  Arcadia. 


As  a  little  torrent  swollen  by  snows  is  turned  to  a  terrible 

stream, 
So  the  gathering  voices  of  all  his  countries  cried  to  the 

king  in  his  dream. 

Crying,  "  For  thee,  O  our  king,  for  thee,  we  had  freely 

and  willingly  died, 
Warriors,   martyrs,   what  thou   wilt;   not   that    our  lives 

betide 

• 

"The  wqrth  of  a  thought  to  the  king,  but  rather,  O  ruler, 

because  thy  rod 
Is  over  our  heads  as  over  thine  is  the  changeless  will  of 

God. 

"  Rather  for  this  we  beseech  thee,  O  master,  for  thine  own 

sake  refrain 
From  the  blasphemous  madness  of  pride,  from  the  fever 

of  impious  gain." 


The  Conquest  of  Fairyland.         187 

"  You  seek  my  death,"  the  king   thundered ;  "  you  cry, 

'  Forbear  to  save 
The  life  of  a  king  too  old  to  frolic  ;  let  him  drowse  in  the 

grave.' 

"  But  I  will  live  for  all  your  treason ;  and,  by  my  own 
right  hand  ! 

I  will  set  out  this  day  with  you  to  conquer  Fairy- 
land." 

Then   all   the   nations   paled   aghast,   for    the   battle   to 

begin 
Was  a  war  with  God,  and  a  war  with  death,  and  they 

knew  the  thing  was  sin. 

Sick  at  heart  they  gathered  together,  but  none  denounced 

the  wrong, 
For  the  will  of  God  was  unseen,  unsaid,  and  the  will  of 

the  king  was  strong. 


1 88  The  New  Arcadia. 

So  the  air  grew  bright  with  spears,  and  the   earth   shook 

under  the  tread 
Of  the  mighty  horses  harnessed  for  battle ;  the  standards 

flaunted  red. 

And  the  wind  was  loud  with  the  blare  of  trumpets,  and 

every  house  was  void 
Of  the  strength  and  stay  of  the  house,  and  the  peace  of 

the  land  destroyed. 

And  the  growing  corn  was  trodden  under  the  weight  of 

armed  feet, 
And  every  woman  in  Persia  cursed  the  sound  of  a  song 

too  sweet, 

Cursed  the  insensate  longing  for  life  in  the  heart  of  a  sick 

old  man  ; 
But  the   king  of  Persia  with   all  his  armies  marched  on 

Masinderan. 


The  Conquest  of  Fairyland.          1 89 

Many  a  day  they  marched   in  the  sun  till  their  silver 

armor  was  lead 
To  sink  their  bodies  into  the  grave,  and  many  a  man  fell 

dead. 

And  they  passed  the  mouth  of  hell,  and  the  shadowy 

country  gray, 
Where  the  air  is  mist  and  the  people  mist  and  the  rain 

more  real  than  they. 

And  they  came  to  the  fount  of  wonder,  and  forded  the 

waters  wan, 
And  the  king  of  Persia  and  all  his  armies  marched  on 

Masinderan. 

And  they  turned  the  rivers  to  blood,  and  the  fields  to  a 

ravaged  camp, 
Till  they  neared  the  golden  faery  town,  that  burned  in  the 

dusk  as  a  lamp. 


igo  The  New  Arcadia. 

And  they  stood  and  shouted  for  joy,  to  see  it  stand  so 

nigh, 
Given  into  their  hands  for  spoil;   and  their  hearts  beat 

proud  and  high. 

And  the  armies  longed  for  the  morrow,  to  conquer  the 

shining  town, 
For  there  was  no  death  in  the  land,  neither  any  to  strike 

them  down. 

And  the  hosts  were  many  in  numbers,  mighty,  and  skilled 

in  the  strife, 
And  they  lusted  for  gold  and  conquest  as  the  old  king 

lusted  for  life. 

And,   gazing    on    the   golden    place,   night    took    them 

unaware, 
And   black   and  windy  grew   the   skies,   and   black   the 

eddying  air  — 


The  Conquest  of  Fairyland.         191 

So  long  the  night  and  black  the  night  that  fell  upon  their 

eyes, 
They  quaked   with   fear,  those   mighty   hosts ;    the  sun 

would  never  rise. 

Darkness  and  deafening  sounds  confused  the  black,  tem- 
pestuous'air, 

And  no  man  saw  his  neighbor's  face,  nor  heard  his  neigh- 
bor's prayer. 

And  wild  with  terror  the  mad  battalions  fell  on  each  other 

in  fight, 
The  ground  was  strewn  with  wounded  men,  mad  in  the 

horrible  night  — 

Mad    with    eternal    pain,  "with    darkness    and    stabbing 

blows 
Rained  on  all  sides  from  invisible  hands  till  the  ground 

was  red  as  a  rose. 


1 92  The  New  Arcadia. 

And,  though  he  were  longing  for  rest,  none  ventured  to 

pause  from  the  strife, 
Lest  haply  another  wound  be  his  to  poison  his  hateful 

life. 

And  the  king  entreated  death ;   and  for  peace  the  armies 

prayed ; 
But  the  gifts  of  God  are  everlasting.  His  word  is  not 

gainsaid. 

Gold  and  battle  are  given  the  hosts,  their  boon  is  turned 

to  a  ban, 
And  the  curse  of  the  king  is  to  live  forever  in  conquered 

Masinderan. 


SONG. 

I  HAVE  lost  my  singing- voice ; 

My  heyday  's  over. 
No  more  I  lilt  my  cares  and  joys, 

But  keep  them  under  cover. 

My  heyday  's  gone  : 

I  sit  and  look  on 
While  Life  rushes  past  with  a  sob  and  a  moan. 

Wherefore  should  I  stop  to  tell 

The  pang  that  rends  me  ? 
If  it  leave  me  all  is  well ; 

And  if  it  last  it  ends  me. 

Should  one  tear  rise   • 

To  my  entranced  eyes 
It  falls  for  a  world  full  of  hunger  and  sighs. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 
FAMOUS  WOMEN  SERIES. 

EMILY  BRONTE. 

BY    A.    MARY    F.    ROBINSON. 
One  vol.   16mo.  Cloth.  Price,  $1.00. 


in 

brz  .  ,  ..  .  _m r.__ o 

beyond  all  the  darkness,  and  a  passionate  defiance  in  bearing  more  than  the 
burdens  that  were  laid  upon  her.  The  story  of  the  three  sisters  is  infinitely  sad, 
but  it  is  the  ennobling  sadness  that  belongs  to  large  natures  cramped  and  striving 
for  freedom  to  heroic,  almost  desperate,  work,  with  little  or  no  result.  The  author 
of  this  intensely  interesting,  sympathetic,  and  eloquent  biography,  is  a  young  lady 
and  a  poet,  to  whom  a  place  is  given  in  a  recent  anthology  of  living  English  poets, 
which  is  supposed  to  contain  only  the  best  poems  of  the  best  writers.  — Boston 
Daily  Advertiser. 

"  Miss  Robinson  had  many  excellent  qualifications  for  the  task  she  has  per- 
formed in  this  little  volume,  among  which  may  be  named,  an  enthusiastic  interest 
in  her  subject  and  a  real  sympathy  with  Emily  Bronte's  sad  and  heroic  life.  '  To 
represent  her  as  she  was,'  says  Miss  Robinson,  '  would  be  her  noblest  and  most 
fitting  monument.'  .  .  .  Emily  Bronte  here  becomes  well  known  to  us  and,  in  one 
sense,  this  should  be  praise  enough  for  any  biography.''  —  New  York  Times. 

"The  biographer  who  finds  such  material  before  him  as  the  lives  and  characters 
of  the  Bronte  family  need  have  no  anxiety  as  to  the  interest  of  his  work.  Char- 
acters not  only  strong  but  so  uniquely  strong,  genius  so  supreme,  misfortunes  so 
overwhelming,  set  in  its  scenery  so  forlornly  picturesque,  could  not  fail  to  attract 
all  readers,  if  told  even  in  the  most  prosaic  language.  When  we  add  to  this,  that 
Miss  Robinson  has  told  their  story  not  in  prosaic  language,  but  with  a  literary 
style  exhibiting  all  the  qualities  essential  to  good  biography,  our  readers  will 
understand  that  this  life  of  Emily  Bronte  is  not  only  as  interesting  as  a  novel,  but 
a  great  deal  more  interesting  than  most  novels.  As  it  presents  most  vividly  a 
general  picture  of  the  family,  there  seems  hardly  a  reason  for  giving  it  Emily's  name 
alone,  except  perhaps  for  the  masterly  chapters  on  '  Wuthering  Heights,'  which 
the  reader  will  find  a  grateful  condensation  of  the  best  in  that  powerful  but  some- 
what forbidding  story.  We  know  of  no  point  in  the  Bronte  history  —  their  genius, 
their  surroundings,  their  faults,  their  happiness,  their  misery,  their  love  and  friend- 
ships, their  peculiarities,  their  power,  their  gentleness,  their  patience,  their  pride, 
—  which  Miss  Robinson  has  not  touched  upon  with  conscientiousness  and  sym- 
pathy."— The  Critic. 

" '  Emily  Bronte  '  is  the  second  of  the  '  Famous  Women  Series,'  which  Roberts 
Brothers,  Boston,  propose  to  publish,  and  of  which  'George  Eliot'  was  the  initial 
volume.  Not  the  least  remarkable  of  a  very  remarkable  family,  the  personage 
whose  life  is  here  written,  possesses  a  peculiar  interest  to  all  who  are  at  all  familiar 
with  the  sad  and  singular  history  of  herself  and  her  sister  Charlotte.  That  the 
author,  Miss  A.  Mary  F.  Robinson,  has  done  her  work  with  minute  fidelity  to 
facts  as  well  as  affectionate  devotion  to  the  subject  of  her  sketch,  is  plainly  to  be 
seen  all  through  the  book."  —  Washington  Post, 


Sold  by  all  Booksellers,  or  mailed,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of 
price,  by  the  Publishers, 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  BOSTON. 


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